The Learning Curve
by AnOunceofShag
Summary: Threatened with failing the tenth grade for the second time, Johnny has no choice but to accept his principal's ultimatum of taking after school lessons. The only problem is, his tutor drives a blue Mustang… Warnings: mature language, sexual themes, homophobia, child abuse (mental & physical)
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. I just like them.

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"What I'm trying to get through to you, young man are you listening?"

Johnny curls deeper into his chair. It's the sort of plastic chair-desk combination found in elementary schools and it's too small for him. "Yeah." He nods, not looking up. "Yeah. I'm listening."

"What I'm trying to get through to you is that you're in danger of failing the tenth grade yet again. Young man, look at me and show some respect!" Johnny won't look up. He can't. He turns his face even farther away.

"As principal of this school, I'd be retired if I had a dime for every brat who decided to throw away a good education-"

"You saying I should drop out?" His voice is a scratched mix of bitterness and relief.

"Jesus Christ," Principal McConaughey mutters. "No," he answers, sternly. "No." And under his breath, _"God knows we don't need a higher dropout rate." _Johnny's eye catches his principal's hands as the man fingers his tie, his forefinger grazing against the yellow gold tie pin and down striped navy silk. He's suddenly made aware of his own attire: worn, ripped jeans, a t-shirt that used to be white, and tennis shoes that have a hole where his left big toe sticks out just slightly. He shouldn't have bothered to show up today. How much more of this stupid scare speech is he going to be forced to hear? He's bound to drop out eventually, anyway.

"You need to wise up, young man. You need to get serious about your education. It's September 18th, and you're already failing history, you've got a D in English, and you're failing algebra as well. You still have yet to finish your incomplete for last year's Natural Science course because you attended class so infrequently your teacher doesn't even remember what you look like. Does a free education not interest you? Hmmm?"

Johnny bites his lip.

"I'm going to be blunt with you, boy. I could care less about whether or not you punk kids want to fail out of high school and ruin your lives. But I'm got pressure from the superintendent, pressure from the school board, and pressure from the PTA to improve the standing of this institution. Pressure a juvenile delinquent like yourself can't possibly understand. My job's at stake. Do you know what that means? Well, do you? Have you ever had a job?"

Johnny shakes his head.

"What that means is I'd like more than anything for problem kids like you to get the hell out of my school and not burden this administration any longer, but instead, I'm stuck with you. And if I'm stuck with you, I'm going to make damn sure you don't fail. I swear to God Mr., Mr.-" the principal looks down at the file on his desk, "-Mr. Cade," he booms, "if you don't get your ass in gear, you have a lot more to fear than detention. Stop slouching! Is this phone number still current?"

"Don't call home." Johnny blurts out. _Damn it. _

The principal's stern face changes to a wicked smile; his lips spread out so far his mouth looks like it belongs to a horse. "Don't call home?" He mimics Johnny's panicked tone. He stands up, his hands spread out over his desk, and he leans over, as if he's done this a hundred other times, to a hundred other hapless students.

Unconsciously, Johnny's hand grazes the bruise on his temple, a blue-green bump hiding beneath his greasy bangs. When he becomes aware of his reaction, he brushes back his hair with arrogant indifference, schools his breath, and shrugs. "Whatever. It don't matter. Call them. See if I care."

The principal sits down and leans back in his seat. He stretches out his stumpy legs and rests his shiny black oxfords on the waxed, cherrywood desk. "Let's make a deal. You start showing up to class. And try in class, mind you. Bring up your grades-"

"I am trying!" Johnny insists. He's never aimed an outburst at an authority figure before, but today he just can't help himself. Because it's unfair. Normally Johnny accepts unfair, or figures out a way to make unfair seem like fair in his head, so it doesn't bother him. But there's nothing more shameful than being stupid. Except maybe being poor. He tries. He does. He crosses his arms defiantly.

"I'm trying but I just ain't smart." He chokes on the _smart_, coughing down his humiliation. Greasers like Dally and Soda and Steve drop out because they're too cool for school. But Johnny knows if he ever dropped out, it would be because he's too dumb.

"I'm just dumb," he repeats, his voice low. For a long stretch of time, there's silence filled by _dumb dumb dumb_ echoing back at him in his mind. When Johnny dares to look up, Principal McConaughey no longer looks smug. He looks puzzled.

"You're honestly trying," the principal says, monotone in his surprise.

"Yeah."

The principal looks back down at Johnny's file and flips through the pages. "Do you have a record, Mr. Cade?"

"I mean, I got detention for skipping a couple times..."

"I mean a criminal record."

"Not yet." It's another embarrassing admission, especially considering Dally's mile long, brag-worthy rap sheet. Johnny kicks back his chair, paralleling his principal's move of the foot on the desk. Age and money don't change the posturing of tuff. Except, Johnny's chair teeters and he nearly falls back before he rights it, all four legs on the ground.

"Your type usually has a record." The principal sighs. "What do you plan on doing for a living, Mr. Cade?"

Johnny shrugs. "Don't know." When the uneasy silence returns, Johnny knows his answer isn't good enough. "Guess I'll get drafted or something. Die for my country or something important like that."

"Don't get sarcastic with me. It would be an honor for a boy like you to die for this great nation."

Said by any of his peers, it would have been sarcastic, but Johnny actually meant it. He knows he's a loser. He's probably gonna end up a drunk living off Uncle Sam's dime just like his old man. But ever since he watched _Gone With the Wind _on Pony's insistence, Johnny has had a fantasy of dying gallantly, like them southern gentleman, riding into sure death for honor and the beauty of a lost cause. All the older greasers he knows in a peripheral way live in dread of getting the letter. Johnny's seen the way Shepard's gang have stopped talking about the boy who's been shipped off. And he's overheard Darry and Sodapop's heated whispers about what's gonna happen next year, when Soda turns eighteen. Everybody knows the government sends away delinquents first, and Soda's record is longer than Pony's aware of. He even knows of one boy in his neighborhood who got killed. And yet, Johnny dreams of getting that letter. He's never imagined life beyond the present.

"Your unsurprising lack of patriotism aside, I'm going to set you up with a tutor," Principal McConaughey says. He nods, approving of his decision. "Three days a week. Two hours a day. Right after school. That should fix these grades."

"I don't need a tutor," Johnny answers instinctually.

It's same response he gives to every offer of help. _Seriously, Dal, I don't need ice. It'll heal just fine. Don't worry 'bout me, I'll sleep in the lot tonight, Darry. Thanks anyway, but I ain't hungry, Two-Bit. Pony, didn't I just tell you I don't need help with my homework? _Because he doesn't need help. He's fine on his own. He can handle it. Whatever it is, he can handle it.

"If you don't show up tomorrow at the library immediately after that bell for your tutoring session, Mr. Cade, I will call home and personally give the worst report I have ever given a student in my history as both a teacher and a principal. I will keep calling until a parent is on that line, furious with you and ready to give hell. Is that understood? You will show up for tutoring if I have to drag you there."

Johnny looks down. He closes his eyes. He nods. "I'll be there."

Principal McConaughey closes his file with finality. "So we understand each other."


	2. Chapter 2

Johnny's backpack is so full it won't zip up. That's never happened before. He's leaning over like some hunchback he was supposed to read about in English class, and his lower back is throbbing something awful. When he reaches the entrance to his high school library, he stands in the open doorway, as if forgetting how to walk. He's never been there except once, when his history class-the lowest level, the one meant for dumb kids-went there to talk about research and learn how to use the card catalogue.

The library is virtually empty except for an elderly lady at the help desk, two preppy girls bent over their books in a back corner, and some lone Soc sitting at a long desk with his back turned away from the entrance. He has wavy hair that doesn't quite fit the Beatles bowl cut, and he's wearing a madras shirt under a forest green sweater. His pricey floods are cut high enough to show off his pricey boat shoes. That must be his tutor, Johnny realizes, and his gut fills with dread. He doesn't know what he was thinking (or not thinking), because he hadn't considered this. But of course his tutor's got to be a Soc. The only studious greaser Johnny's ever met is Pony.

Johnny shuffles forward a few steps and the boy turns around. "Are you here for tutoring?" he calls over, and gestures for Johnny. Jesus Christ.

Johnny stops in his tracks. He thinks his heart stops, too. It's not just any Soc. It's one of the Socs who beat him up. It's _that_ one.

Johnny can still hear that boy's voice in his head sometimes, when he's restless, lying awake in his bed. He can hear it in his nightmares once he's gone to sleep. He can hear it invading his daydreams, when he's trying to force himself to imagine nice things like Pony does. He can't escape the memory of a blue Mustang and nowhere to run. Of rich kids smelling heavy of expensive cologne and cheap liquor surrounding him, taunting him.

Halfway through, when he's tasting the dirt and spit and blood and he knows if he can't get away they'll kill him, he hears it. _Come on, Bob._ The voice is slurred. Drunken. _Don't you think we're taking this a little too far? Let's leave him alone. He looks pretty bad off. _It's the voice that's going to make them stop. It's the voice that's going to save him. Johnny remembers the relief more strongly than the pain.

But then that Bob kid answers, his reply a snort of contempt. _Relax, Adderson. We're just having some fun! Don't be such a pussy. _And that small assurance was enough. Enough to convince the Adderson boy it was okay to let the others continue to beat him, beat him almost to death. Enough to convince him to lay on a few extra kicks himself.

Johnny's stares at the boy. He's avoided him-all of them-ever since, but it's not like he's needed to. This Adderson kid's a senior; Johnny's only ever seen him in the hallways and he always makes sure to take a different route when that happens.

Maybe it's not fair, but more than the other guys, who hurt him worse, who cracked three of his ribs, who dislocated his right shoulder, who bloodied his lip, who gave him two black eyes, who kicked him in the balls so hard he blacked out, who cut off a chunk of his hair, who scarred his face permanently, who threatened to rape him and laughed and told him they were kidding when he cried...more than all them, Johnny hates this guy the most. Because he acknowledged that what they were doing was wrong, and he let it happen anyway. 'Cause he wasn't caught up in the drunken mania like the others; he almost helped him, and instead he half-heartedly participated.

The boy gives Johnny a frustrated look because he's still frozen at the entrance. The Soc pushes in his chair and makes his way over, a false smile spread across his face. He looks like the damn National Honors Society President. Shoot. He probably is.

"You must be John Cade. Principal McConaughey told me to look out for a short kid with dark hair. I'm Randy." He holds out his hand, as if Johnny is supposed to touch it. To actually shake it. Johnny stares and shoves his hands in his pockets. The boy doesn't even recognize him.

After an awkward few seconds, Randy drops his hand. "Look, I know you don't want to be here," he says, in the most amiable, reasonable voice possible. "So let me let you in on a secret." He lowers his voice theatrically. "I don't want to be here, either. My dad insists I cram in a few more community service projects before I send out my college applications, because apparently if I don't get into his alma mater the whole world ends, so here we are." He winks, trying to win Johnny over with his oh-so-perfect, the-world-is-my-oyster-everybody-loves-me charisma that all rich kids possess.

"Now, I figure we can both benefit from this. We'll sit over there at that desk. All you have to do is give me a sample of your handwriting and your latest assignments. I do your work, dumbing my own ideas down of course, and you hang out and pretend to study, and we both get what we want. You pass the ninth grade, you're a freshman, right? You look like a freshman. I get into Duke-"

"Go fuck yourself."

The Soc's mouth opens in surprise, affronted. He looks like a toddler, coming to grips with the word 'no' for the first time and not liking it at all. "Ex-cu-u-se me?"

"I said go fuck yourself," Johnny repeats. He crosses his arms and stares at him hard, hoping to God the boy can't tell that he's shaking under his jeans jacket. The jacket that still has blood on the collar from that night.

"_I'm_ doing you a favor, grease," Randy practically shouts, outraged. "You better show some respect to your betters!"

The librarian assistant at the help desk makes a shushing sound in their direction. She shushes louder than either of them had been speaking.

"Sounds like you're doing yourself a favor," snaps Johnny. Trembling in the assurance he's gonna get beat up yet again, he turns on his heel and walks out, leaving Mr. Duke-bound standing speechless in bewilderment.


	3. Chapter 3

"Woo-hoo, Johnnycake! Fancy seeing you here!" Steve jumps at him from behind and lands his hands hard on Johnny's shoulders. Johnny crouches, arms shielding his head. When he's aware of what he's doing, he feels the burn of his face turning red. The parking lot at the Dingo where they're loitering is pretty active with older greasers he doesn't know, who are hanging out and bragging to each other about their cars and their girls. There's a good chance some pretty tough characters witnessed him acting like a wimp.

When Johnny straightens himself and looks up, he catches Dally's hateful glare, but it ain't aimed at him.

"What were you thinking?" Dally slaps Steve across the head.

Steve shoves Dally. "Calm down, Dallas, I forgot."

Dally shoves Steve. "You trying to tell me what to do, Randle?"

"Guys, come on, cut it out." Johnny's already repositioned himself so his back is to the wall of the diner. That way, nobody can jump out at him. He pushes his bangs out of his eyes and forces himself to face his friends. It's damn pathetic, reacting that way after all these months. Just because he had to talk to one of those boys who jumped him today doesn't means he has a right to get so spooked. Shoot, that Randy kid let him cuss him out and walk right out of the library. He didn't even take the bait. Johnny needs to calm down. He's overreacting. He needs to act like a man.

Dally slings his arm around Johnny's shoulder. Johnny's heart jumps out again, but for the wrong reasons. He schools his face into indifference.

"You okay kid? You're extra jumpy today. You need me to stop by and teach your old man a lesson?" Dally balls his hand into a fist. Not like they needed a visual signal. Dally threatens to teach his old man a lesson at least once a week. If Johnny didn't stop him, he'd carry through with it, too.

"Naw man, he's been doing all right for a couple days. He found Jesus again or something. I don't know why he keeps losing him." Nobody laughs at Johnny's attempt at a joke, probably because it's not really a joke.

"Everything else okay?" Steve asks. He lights up a cancer stick, but before he can take his third inhale, Dally snatches it and takes a puff.

"Winston, knock it off. Give me that back. I'm almost at my last one."

Dally quickly hands the smoke to Johnny. That hadn't been his original intention, but now the cigarette is lost to Steve forever. Nobody in the gang takes a smoke from Johnny. The same way nobody in the gang steals food off his plate or loses their temper with him or even gives him a hard talking to.

Steve doesn't look happy about the situation, and Johnny probably should give it back, but he starts in on it anyway. He could use one right now to calm his nerves.

"So, what happened?" Dally lifts up Johnny chin and checks his face for bruises. There's nothing new and Dally's mouth pinches in confusion.

"You know Dallas, not every problem is physical," Steve mutters bitterly. He lights another cigarette.

"Guess you should know," snaps Dally.

Johnny hates it when they get like this. He gets enough bickering at home and Dally and Steve together are the worst. He can't wait until Soda's finished his date with Sandy; it's more balanced when the Soda and Steve are together.

"Oh, and you don't?" Steve says.

"I don't have problems."

Steve scoffs. "Sure Dallas, keep telling yourself that. You only got hauled in last weekend for the hundredth time. And where're you living now? Buck's? That old hillbilly-"

"If I say I don't have problems it's 'cause I decide I don't. Whatever happens, it don't matter." Johnny believes him. That's what makes him so tuff. Dallas Winston doesn't have a care in the world. "And Randle, you could not have problems too if you could quit being so angry."

"And Johnny could not have problems if he quit being so sensitive," Steve shoots nastily.

"Keep your mouth shut before I break that jaw," Dally threatens.

Steve scowls at Dally, but he puts a hand on Johnny's shoulder. "Look, I'm sorry," he says. "I don't know what got into me."

Johnny gives him a small smile. "It's okay, man. And anyway, it's true."

"So what is it?" Steve asks. "Your bitch mom lay in on you again?" He gives him an understanding look.

"Watch your mouth when you're talking about my Ma," Johnny answers. He leans his face against the wall and brushes his finger against a torn paper advertisement for the diner. It's a picture of a dairy cow wearing an apron, holding out a tray with coffee and pie.

"It was a Soc," says Steve, "if it weren't your folks. Some damn Soc threaten you? I swear to God I could kill every one of them. I'd be glad to. Those rich shits..."

"There was a Soc, but nothing happened. I'm fine."

Dally raises his eyebrows at this.

"Nothing happened, okay?" Johnny insists. "Nothing. I'm just a little on edge today is all. I'm fine." They don't believe him.

"You see one of them boys who jumped you?" Dally asks, voice stiff.

Johnny stubs out the cigarette with his toe. It's been about a month since Dally last asked him, and he had hoped Dally had simply quit it like Johnny begged him to. Shortly after the jumping, Dally asked him everyday. _Who did it, Johnny? Point them out to me. Do you know their names? What do they look like? Come on kid, tell me. Tell me._ Dally has a heater and a short fuse and Johnny knows Dally would kill those boys. All five of them. And while Johnny don't care about the fate of cruel rich kids who exist for no other reason than to torment greasers, the last thing in the world he wants is Dally locked in the cooler for life for murder.

"Naw, Dally. I told you. I got knocked in the head. I don't remember what they look like."

Before Dally can start in on it again, Steve interrupts. "Let's go to the Curtises'. I think Soda said something about baking chocolate cake last night."

So they go.


	4. Chapter 4

"That's not fair!" Ponyboy shouts. Steve groans and Pony shoots him a baleful glare. Even though only minutes ago the gang collectively finished two doubled-layered chocolate cakes (compliments of Soda, who wasn't even there) all the boys are heading out for chocolate malts. Or at least, all of them but Ponyboy.

"If you finished your homework before dinner like I told you to, you could come with everybody. What have you been doing for the past three hours?" Darry crosses his arms in front of his broad chest. He got home from work less than ten minutes ago, and he hasn't had time to change from his thin, sweat-stained roofing shirt. Johnny's eyes move from the muscles of his forearms to his stern, taut jawline. Ponyboy sure has guts to talk back to a big brother like _that_.

"I've been working on it, but it's hard, Darry," Pony whines.

"Your paper's due tomorrow, Pony. So if you don't get your butt in that bedroom and hunker down, I'll-"

"You'll what?"

"Quit talking back."

"It was just a question."

"I'll stay with ya, Pone." Johnny's quiet voice silences the increasing volume of the Curtis brothers' argument. "I don't mind. 'Sides, I have some schoolwork to catch up on, too."

Darry turns to Johnny and mouths a silent thank you. Johnny shrugs at him when he's sure Pony's not looking. In truth, Johnny is lucky to have an out. He hates going out with the boys when he doesn't have any cash on him. Even if he knows somebody will spot him without a second thought, Johnny doesn't want to go somewhere expecting that. It feels sleazy.

Ponyboy slings an arm around Johnny in thanks, but he's still sulking when everybody leaves. The two head to the small bedroom shared by Pony and Soda.

Johnny loves that room. It's nothing special, just a boy's mess of dirty socks, scattered childhood plastic horses (Soda), and miscellaneous dime paperbacks (Ponyboy). But for Johnny, everything about it-from the worn bedsheets to the Elvis and Fats Domino 45s piled in the corner-is comforting and safe. They spread out on the floor: Pony, lying on his stomach, absently twirling a pen, glowering at an opened composition book, Johnny, sitting cross-legged on the worn rug, twiddling with his shoelace and clicking his nails on top of the Algebra textbook that's plopped unopened in front of him. He still had his schoolbag with him when he came to the Curtises' place, and now there's no getting out of doing his homework.

After a few minutes, procrastination becomes too boring to continue with, so Johnny flips through the pages of the textbook and starts reading excerpts from the section his class is currently studying. He mouths the words, but that doesn't help. It's like reading a foreign language, because besides "an" and "the" and other simple words, all of it seems to be vocabulary he hasn't learned, arranged in a grammar that is unfamiliar to him. He briefly considers telling Pony about being forced to take after school lessons, but the humiliation of being particularly stupid is fresh in his mind as he tries to interpret at the strange symbols in the textbook. It's especially embarrassing, considering how Pony's so book smart.

For his part, Pony sighs in frustration next to Johnny. Johnny peeks over to see what he's written. In the margin and sneaking onto the body of the page are several horses sketched in various detail. One has a anatomically perfect face, with each hair of the mane penciled out, the rest of its body forgotten and fading off, where a new horse, smaller in scale and running, is drawn over it. Only one paragraph is scrawled out on the page, in dark, angry handwriting, and it's been mostly crossed out.

"What do you got so far?" Johnny asks. Usually, Pony only needs to get started talking, and a brilliant idea occurs to him in mid-sentence.

"Nothing," Pony grumbles.

"Looks like you got a paragraph there. Why don't you read it to me?"

Ponyboy rolls onto his back and sits up. He snatches his notebook and starts reading off the page without warning. "The Indian Removal Act was a cruel, mean thing that happened in 1830." He shoots Johnny a defiant look from over his notebook, as if daring him to disagree, and continues, "when lame excuse for a President Andrew Jackson, the cowardly Congress, and the rest of the other horrible people living in the United States decided they were going to get rid of the people they didn't like 'cause they were different. So they forced the Indians west across the country and a lot of people died of starvation. This was called the Trail of Tears and we should be ashamed."

After a couple seconds of silence, Pony slams down his notebook and crosses his arms. "Well?"

Johnny bites his lip. "I ain't sure the teacher's gonna like that, Pone. I mean, no offense, but it's not up to your usual standards. Maybe you could cross out that bit about being ashamed. It's kind of, um, strongly worded."

"We _should_ be ashamed," Ponyboy says with conviction. But Johnny's not sure about that.

In the history classes Johnny's taken, he's learned about the great things the great leaders in America have done, and all those men seem pretty impressive to him. What with Abe Lincoln freeing the slaves, and George Washington never telling a lie, and Ben Franklin discovering electricity, there's plenty to be proud of. Johnny's never heard the Indian Removal Act until now, but it doesn't sound like something the America he's learned about would do. What Johnny knows about Indians he picked up from two Clint Eastwood pictures and the half a dozen Spaghetti Westerns he and Pony saw last summer. He likes their headdresses and tomahawks and the way they're always saying clever things while smoking pipes. He thinks they must've been pretty tuff old guys.

"It's just...how come people think it's okay to do that kinda stuff, you know?" Ponyboy continues. "Hurt people like that, I mean. And I'm not just talking about one person being mean. I'm talking about lots of people. Everybody. How can everybody think they're right about something, when later, when kids read about it in history class, we can all see how wrong they were? It just doesn't make sense."

"I don't know, Pony." Johnny scoots over and puts his hand on Ponyboy's shoulder. "You shouldn't worry about it, though. Those things happened a long time ago."

"But what if they're happening now?"

Johnny gives him a confused look. "What do you mean? Nobody's killing Indians anymore."

"No. Not that. I mean like, what if, as a country, we all believe in something wrong, and do really bad things to perfectly good people right now, only we don't know it?"

"Like what?"

"That's the thing," says Pony, "we don't know it."

"Pony, is it just the Indians you're upset about?" Johnny asks.

Pony gives him a sad smile. "It is and it isn't. I can't get anything by you, can I?"

Johnny shrugs knowingly.

"I mean, if you're gonna force me to tell you, I can't say I didn't try to keep it private..." The two boys grin at each other before Ponyboy's face drops again, as if remembering the topic of conversation.

"It's something that happened at school today." He let's out a huff, perhaps hoping for Johnny to ask him to continue, but Johnny only waits patiently in silence.

"You know Gene Goldman, in my year? I mean, I don't know if you do. But he's pretty well known because he's...I don't know how to put it...he's kind of effeminate. I mean, I think Paul Newman's tuff and all, but I don't keep a picture of him taped up in my locker. You get what I mean?"

Johnny pulls his hand off Ponyboy's shoulder, as if suddenly guilty. He stares intently at the bent, cardboard-y corner of his Algebra textbook. "I get it." His voice is stiff. Because he gets it. He gets it more than Ponyboy will ever know.

"Anyway, so even though he denies being a, um," Pony lowers his voice as if Mrs. Curtis were still alive and he were trying to get away with cussing one room over, "_homosexual_," he pronounces each syllable carefully, like he's sounding it out, "everybody suspects he is and gives him a hard time about it."

On the inside of the back cover is a list of names of the previous owners of the textbook. There are fourteen names, which means the book has survived fourteen years of high school. Johnny wonders which boy damaged the book's corner. He tries to force himself to wonder this. Tries to force himself not to think about anything else, not to reveal too much.

"He's in my gym class," Pony goes on, oblivious, "and in the locker room today, I mean, it was more than just a hard time. A couple boys were really letting him have it Johnny, right there in school. And they were being real mean about it, too. Calling him names and stuff. And I just, I mean, I thought, even if it were true, maybe I should go and help him. You know, I felt real bad for him. But there were five guys, and five against two ain't exactly good odds, and I don't know Gene all that well anyway. And then Mr. Wheaton came in, and he saw it. He's the teacher and he didn't even stop them. He just sort of chuckled and said, 'Don't get too carried away' and went back to his office."

Don't think about it, Johnny scolds himself. But that never works. Whenever he tells himself not to think about a particular thing, his mind latches onto it in direct stubbornness. He shoots a quick, guilty glance at Ponyboy, wondering why he's telling him this. Wondering if he suspects. Wondering if he's trying to ease a confession out of him. But Ponyboy doesn't look scheming. He looks distressed. For now, Johnny's secret is safe.

He started having feelings around the same time other boys do, but the problem was, he was having feelings for other boys. It's not something he's ever told anybody. He knows what people think of boys like him: it's real bad because it's something nobody talks about it, except using the words "queer" or "fag" as a slur to start a fight. And a couple months ago in Little Rock a man wearing a dress in public was beat to death. Only last week, at Buck's place, Johnny heard an older guy bragging about being involved.

If he could change himself, he would. And he's tried. First, he tried to convince himself he didn't feel that way. And when denial stopped working, he tried to convince himself he could force himself to change. But he hasn't changed. It's not a problem he can fix. Deep down, he's a pervert, even if he's promises himself he'll never act on it.

"I guess I feel guilty I didn't help him," Ponyboy says reluctantly, waiting for Johnny's assurance.

Johnny swallows. "It wasn't your fight."

"Yeah. But." Ponyboy taps his fingers against the notebook. "But it got me thinking. Why is it bad?"

"To jump somebody?"

"No. To be...like Gene. That's the reason I haven't been able to write this paper. I can't think about anything else. Because I couldn't come up with a reason why it's bad, except that it makes me uncomfortable. And that's not a good reason to beat somebody up, or to send them to a mental institution to get fixed, is it? I mean, what if we're all wrong, the entire country, or the entire _world_, and we're hurting guys like Gene for no good reason? And maybe our grandkids are going to look back on us, and ask, how could you do that, just like I ask when I think about the how the Indians were treated."

"Ponyboy," Johnny says sternly. He stares at Pony, straight on. "I want you to listen to me."

Pony nods, trusting him completely. Ponyboy's the only one in the gang who looks up to him for guidance and protection instead of the other way around. Johnny has to do his duty by him, as his older friend. Ponyboy has a big heart; he's barely older than thirteen and he doesn't know any better. It's Johnny's job to steer him right, especially now that he doesn't have parents to guide him.

"Being like that is wrong," Johnny's voice leaves no room for argument. "It's unnatural, and it's wrong."

Pony nods, but he doesn't look convinced. Then, Johnny can see his face swiftly change from troubled confusion to panic. "Shoot! You don't think... Look. Just because I was wondering whether or not it was wrong doesn't mean I'm like that, Johnny. You have to know I'm not. Because I'm not. I would never want you to think of me like that. _Gross_." He makes a disgusted face. It's genuine.

Sometimes, Johnny suspects that's why he lets his old man beat on him. Why he never fights back. Deep down, he knows he's disgusting and different and wrong, and he takes whatever punishment his dad sees fit to give him because he deserves it.

"You don't think that, do you?" Pony bites his lip, his eyes wide. They're both aware that this moment could be the end of Pony's reputation, depending on Johnny's response.

Johnny pulls his knees up to his chest. "Trust me, you got nothing to worry about Pone. I know you ain't like that. Now don't worry about it again. Worry about finishing your paper before Darry has a conniption."

"Thanks for listening, Johnnycake." Ponyboy reaches out and pulls him into a hug, they're huddled there together, Johnny holding his knees, Pony holding Johnny.

"I knew you'd understand. I can tell you and Soda anything in whole world, even private stuff like this. I don't think I'll ever keep a secret from either of you." Ponyboy squeezes him extra tight. "I couldn't get along without you. You're my best friend."

But Johnny will always have a secret. That final declaration of _gross_ is assurance enough.

The boys are always getting on his back about sticking up for himself when his old man lets in on him. But they would think he deserves it too, if only they knew the truth.


	5. Chapter 5

"Hey, Ma," Johnny mumbles as he makes his way into his home from school the next day. He's supposed to be at tutoring again, but he can't force himself to go. Not when thinks of that rich kid's smug face, suggesting Johnny is so stupid that he has to do his work for him.

No, he's not going to go. Not even if means he's gonna get kicked out of school. Not even if it means they'll call home and he'll be kicked out of his place. Which they haven't, even after he walked out yesterday on his last lesson. Principal McConaughey is all empty threats.

His mom is sitting in front of the television, but it's turned off, and she's painting her nails a stop sign red. Her dark hair is damp and rolled up in rags. She's resting a bare, newly painted foot on the coffee table in front of her, and cluttered around that foot in a sloppy arrangement is a hand mirror and various makeup supplies, bottles and brushes and colored powders. Johnny watches as she tends to the curve of her nail-bed. He lets his lips form into a half-smile. It's nice to see her take care of herself. She must be feeling better.

"You know, your father's taking me out to dinner tonight," she preens. That must mean his old man is still keeping up with his meetings and Jesus talks.

Today is the first time his mom has volunteered information in nearly two weeks. Not that Johnny's much of a talker, but it gets kinda lonely when his own mother doesn't acknowledge his existence. Most days, she stares at the screen of the television, eating and drinking her "mixers" and bitching to herself about his old man. There are times when she goes a week without showering.

"Real glad to hear it," says Johnny. He waits in the hallway, his hands in his pockets, wondering what he should say to her. He wants her to know he's happy for her, he's on her side. He wants her to think he's a good son, now that she's paying attention enough to notice.

The phone rings. Johnny goes still. Nobody calls his house, except occasionally the cops about his old man and the school about him.

"I'll get it!" he says quickly, but the phone is on the side table and his mom is closer.

"I'm expecting a call from Shirley." She picks up the phone. For a second, Johnny feels relief. It's Shirley. It has to be. But then, "Yes, this is Mrs. Cade." She nods on the phone, and glares at him. "I see." That goes on for some time, nodding, and _I see_, and each time those two words are spoken, they are spoken sharper. Finally she says, "I'm really very sorry. His father and I have tried with him. I promise you he'll get properly disciplined at home. I'll send him over right now. Yes, I apologize again." She hangs up the phone.

"You're damn lucky your father wasn't home to answer that."

Johnny's glad he stayed in the hallway, where the light is turned off and she can't see him clearly. When she's pissed at him, it starts the same way every time. She looks him up and down, showing with her long, critical gaze that he's a disappointment before she lets him have it with her words. And he's glad he didn't step in reaching distance, because she'd probably slap him. One slap from her is worse than a beating from his old man. He loves her more.

"I have half a mind to tell him, too. Only I don't want his progress messed up by you again, or him going off on me when you're the one who deserves it." His mom slams her hand on the coffee table. Her makeup bottles rattle. "So you're failing school again. I don't believe it."

"I'm trying!"

"Oh, is that why you skipped your mandatory tutoring session? Because you're trying! Don't just stand there. Answer me!"

"I ain't feeling good," Johnny mumbles.

"How do you think I feel when your principal calls home, huh Johnny? What kind of mother does that make me look like? How do you think I feel when I find out you're cutting class all the time?" She waits for him to answer. He doesn't.

"You know, the police are gonna call around here if the school bothers with this, don't you? And they're gonna drag me to court for your truancy. You think I feel like standing in front of a judge explaining myself because you're too lazy to do what a boy your age should be doing?"

"I swear Ma, I'm trying. I am." Johnny's voice is small. The only thing worse than her zoning out and ignoring him is her paying attention and hollering.

"If you're getting those grades, and you're actually trying, we need to get you looked at boy, because that means you're retarded. I have a retard for a son."

Johnny feels a knot lump in his throat and his eyes are stinging. _She's right. I'm retarded_, Johnny thinks. _I'm retarded._ The thought of facing that Soc who jumped him and not understanding what he's trying to teach him is unbearable.

"I'm doing my best with you, Johnny. I swear I am. Why do you always have to pull this shit? Do you ever consider anyone but yourself? What do you think the other moms in this neighborhood have to say about me, when you behave like this? They blame me, that's what. I'm sick of being judged for your mistakes. And stop slouching like that, you look like a hoodlum." Johnny straightens his posture, at least to some degree, because he can't exactly have perfect posture looking down.

"Do you ever think about your future?" Johnny shakes his head no. Lying and telling her he does would only cause him more strife.

"I didn't think so. Not with your behavior. Let me tell you something, kiddo. When I was your age, I was a straight-A student. I was going places. I was going to be a nurse, you know. And a doctor's wife. I had plans. And I gave it all up to be your mom."

Johnny knows those words are replacement words for what she really wants to say. _When I was your age, I got knocked up by your loser father. I should have had an abortion. You were a mistake. _She's said those things to him, last year when she got drunk after his old man lost another job. And she slapped him across the face when he started crying, because he wasn't allowed to make her feel like a bad mother after everything she'd done for him.

"And how do you repay me, Johnny? You don't even try. All you care about is going to those drag races and impressing other J.D.s. Well let me tell you something. That's gonna stop now. Your gonna turn around, get outa my house, and march your ass back up to school for tutoring. You're damn lucky that boy's still there waiting for you." She makes a fist and bangs it on the coffee table. When she opens her hand, he can see the polish, sticky and smeared inside her palm. "Look what you made me do! I swear sometimes I want to kill you."

He thinks about his Ma, sixteen and kicked out of her own home, scared, shunned by her parents and friends, forced to quit school, forced to spend the rest of her life with a man she didn't love, forced to care for an infant she didn't want. He's seen a photograph of her, before he came along. She was small, with wide eyes like his, her dark hair carefully arranged, her dress pressed, her smile as wide as her eyes. She was pretty. She was proud.

He thinks of who she was before he ruined her life with his existence: a normal, happy, middle-class girl. Maybe she would have been a nurse. Maybe she would have met a man she loved, had a child she loved, some kid who wasn't a hood. Sometimes Johnny thinks he could've made it up to her, soothed her lifetime of disappointments if only he were a better son, like the son she was supposed to have when she was older. He wonders about the son who never was sometimes. A son who would be allowed over his grandparents' house for dinner because he wasn't born in sin.

The older he gets, the less he blames his mom for hating him. But it doesn't hurt any less, knowing why.

"Ma-"

"Now. Go back to school. I'm sick of your shit, Johnny, I really am. I have had it up to here-"

"But I told you I'm not feeling good!" Normally he wouldn't argue. He wants to please her. He wants to make her life less difficult. He wants to be for her what he knows he can't be. But today, he just can't go back. He can't go back to sitting across from that boy who jumped him.

"Did you not hear me? Your father and I are gonna have a nice night tonight, and you are not gonna spoil this for me. Get out. I don't want to see your face."


	6. Chapter 6

"You're late." Randy says. "An hour late." Half the lesson is already through. Johnny can at least be grateful for that, even if he did spend the first half being lectured by his mom. Maybe afterwards he can bum around with Two-Bit, Johnny vaguely recalls that he said something about a drag race. That's it. He'll act tuff and space out and think about other things, so it won't even be like he's at the library.

"You're lucky I'm here," Johnny grumbles. He tosses his backpack on the table, right over top of Randy's notebook.

"You're lucky I'm patient," Randy says as he picks up Johnny's backpack and moves it over. He clicks his fingernails against the table a few times. He clears his throat. "Look, I've been thinking about what happened yesterday, and I want to apologize."

Johnny's pulling out his chair, and he stops mid-motion. Surely this Soc is pulling his leg. After all, Johnny's the one who cussed him out. But when Johnny-narrow eyed and suspicious-checks Randy's face, he's wearing this sincere, corny-poke expression. Johnny sits down, across from Randy, secure in the divide of the table between them.

"It was rude of me to suggest I do your work for you," Randy continues. "If I have to tutor you, I'm going to do this the right way. So, this morning I got your schedule from Principal McConaughey and I talked to your teachers-"

"You talked to my teachers! What right-"

Randy pulls out a sheet of paper from his folder and Johnny balks. "Johnny Cade" is scrawled at the top of the page in his own sloppy letters, but there's nothing else written on it besides his teacher's fat red "0%" underlined three times at the top.

He's livid. First all of, it's humiliating. Second, he hates the fact that this stupid Soc actually went to all this trouble for him. Now, he's going to be in his debt. He can't be in a debt to a Soc.

"You got a zero on your math quiz," Randy states, as if it weren't made obvious by the punishing red markings.

Johnny grazes his hand against his pocket, where he keeps his pack of cancer sticks. God, what he'd give for a smoke right now. "That's none of your business."

"Actually, as your tutor, it is entirely my business. And I repeat. A zero."

"It was only ten questions. So what."

"A zero." Randy shakes his head. "You didn't even fill out one problem. What did you do, just sit there for thirty minutes? Everybody knows Johnson is an easy A."

Johnny kicks his foot up on the table and gives Randy his toughest look. It takes him a second to recall his worn, disgusting shoes, worse still because it was raining earlier in the day and he had walked home and back to school through the mud. He puts his foot back down. "I don't need you to lecture me, asshole. I couldn't remember the formula, okay? So lay off."

"It's the quadratic formula," says Randy, as if that's supposed to mean something to him. "Everybody knows the quadratic formula."

That's it. It's bad enough he's forced to learn from this LLBean catalogue model, but Johnny won't tolerate sitting there and take being made fun of. He stands up, kicks in his chair, and turns to leave. He'll drop out for all he cares. And if his folks kick him out for dropping out, he'll just have to be homeless. He's not putting up with this.

Randy reaches over the table and grabs his arm. Johnny's turned around and doesn't see it coming. He flinches at the contact. Thank God he was facing away from him. Thank God the library is nearly empty. No one saw. He tries to calm his rapid breathing. _Get off me. Get off me. Get off me. _

"Maybe we're starting on the wrong foot," Randy says, oblivious to his fear. "Just, come on, sit back down. I'll help you."

"I don't need your help." Johnny's teeth are clenched, his hands balled in fists. Randy's still holding onto his arm.

"Well, maybe you don't, but I have to be here either way or my old man would kill me. So do me a favor and sit down. Like I said before, it's a win-win situation for us both." Randy drops his arm. Johnny thinks about his mom alone at home, throwing shit around the house and muttering to herself about what a disappointment he is. She started up when he was outside, still within hearing distance. Johnny turns back around, faces Randy, and sits down.

"Do you think you could tell me why you're having trouble remembering the formula?"

"I don't know."

Randy waves his hands in front of his chest, urging Johnny to elaborate. But nobody gets more from Johnny when he doesn't feel like speaking, which is most of the time.

"Well, what part of the formula do you remember?" Randy asks.

"I don't know."

Randy lets out a frustrated huff. "Why are you here if you don't even care?"

Johnny doesn't answer.

Randy pulls a hand through his stupid Beatles hair cut. "Okay. Let's try it this way. Why don't you care?"

"Because nobody ever gave me a reason to!" Johnny nearly shouts. Randy gives him that smug, stupid look, and Johnny lets it out, as if his angry words could hurt him. "It's just some weird symbols and numbers and stuff and it don't make no sense," and he's talking fast and frustrated.

"I look at it and I study, but then when we get the tests it's all so confusing and I can't remember. I mean, what is the point of shifting around all those numbers anyway? I'll tell you the point. There isn't a point. I don't know why I'm forced to do this. Besides, the quiz is over, so I don't need to learn it anymore. So why don't you just go on home and leave me alone?"

Randy grins, proud of himself. "So you do talk. And about that quiz...I got you a make-up."

"No. I'm not making up this stupid test. Look man, I can't learn this shit."

Randy's staring at him with a defiant gleam in his eye. Johnny shifts his eyes to floor, because he recognizes that look, and he doesn't like it at all. It's the look Ponyboy gets just before a track meet, the look Dally gets before a rumble. But there's something else there, too. A stubbornness born of never having met defeat, of never having been told no, of never having been denied anything, of never having struggled. It's the cocky self-assurance that only a Soc could have, although Johnny knows a lot of greasers who put on a good front.

"Yes, you can," Randy says. There's no doubt in his voice. "You can learn it. If _I'm_ teaching you, you can. Now, let's start at the basics here. What do you use this formula for? What are you trying to solve for?"

Johnny crosses his arms. "Aren't you supposed to tell me?"

"You're trying to solve for the roots of quadratic equations."

"What's a root?"

Randy stares at him for a few seconds, trying to determine whether or not he's joking. He lets out a long breath. "Okay," he says, now that he's collected himself. "Let's review the previous chapters before we start in on quadratics. Get out your textbook." He speaks with a commanding assurance. He's accustomed to being listened to and obeyed. He sounds more intimidating than Johnny's math teacher.

Johnny pulls out his textbook from his schoolbag.


	7. Chapter 7

The weekend's finally arrived, which means no tutoring, no school, and less guilt about bumming around at his buddies' places. For some reason, Johnny has always felt it was more acceptable to stay the night on the weekend. Like he's less of a bother.

Johnny's sitting next to Pony at the breakfast table, wolfing down a large helping of pancakes smothered in synthetic maple syrup. Pony actually tried making them this time, and they're not bad. A little burnt, but the syrup covers that. There's a little bit of batter clinging to his otherwise perfect hair. All the Curtis boys got perfect hair. Two-Bit, Soda, and Steve are in the other room watching Saturday morning cartoons and drinking stale beers left over from last night and Darry's at the stove top, making everybody eggs 'cause he says they need their protein-as a former football star, Darry's always going on about how none of the boys get enough protein. Lord knows where Dally is. He had another fight with Sylvia last night, according to Two-Bit. Johnny feels happy about that, and guilty for feeling happy. Especially when he knows he doesn't stand a chance, Sylvia or no Sylvia.

"So how come we haven't been hanging around after school anymore, Johnny?" Pony asks. It doesn't escape Johnny's notice that he's asking when there's food on the table, so it's easier to hide his hurt feelings between mouthfuls. On the days Johnny shows up to school, Pony waits for him out under a tree in the parking lot after class lets out each day, and the two of them walk home together. They usually end up spending the rest of the day together, too. But Johnny has been to tutoring right after school, and anyway, he's sorta been avoiding Pony since they had that conversation.

Johnny doesn't know why, but it's like tutoring is this big, dark secret. It's been three days since that talk with the principal, and the longer he waits to tell the boys, the more nervous he gets about telling them. He guesses he's embarrassed because he's doing so poorly in school. Or maybe it's just that he doesn't want them to know he's spending time with a Soc. Even if he has no choice but to spend the time with a Soc, he's still doing it. Johnny puts his fork down.

"I uh, I um, I'mtakingtutoringlessons," Johnny mumbles.

"You're what?" Pony asks, oblivious to his embarrassment.

"I'm taking tutoring lessons," Johnny clarifies.

"Oh." Pony takes a few more bites, but he can't disguise the hurt on his face. "You know, _I _could help you with your homework, Johnny. I wouldn't mind."

Pony's not even old enough to be a freshman, but he's so smart he skipped a grade. He's already in more advanced classes than Johnny. Johnny's proud of him, but it's damn embarrassing when Pony looks over at his schoolwork and tries to help him, casually pointing out his mistakes and making suggestions to strengthen his essays. He guesses it's nice of Pony to do so, but it sure doesn't feel nice.

"The principal said I had to do it on his terms or I would fail again. Maybe get kicked out for good. Can they expel you for being dumb?"

"You're not dumb, Johnny." It's Darry, and his voice is stern. "You're not dumb and I don't want to hear you saying that about yourself again. I've about had it with how you put yourself down. It ain't right. You're a good kid, unlike this one," he teases and he messes up Pony's hair. Pony glares.

Darry puts three eggs on Johnny's plate. Over easy, like he likes them. Then he scoops a large pile of scrambled onto Ponyboy's plate. "Now eat up boys, you're both too thin."

Everyday Darry sounds more and more like a parent. Not Johnny's parents, but a parent. Ponyboy hates it, but Johnny kinda likes it, even if he would never admit it.

"So who's your tutor?" Pony asks. "Is it one of the teachers? Or one of those old volunteer ladies?"

Johnny shakes his head. "A student."

"Who?"

"You wouldn't know him. It's a Soc."

"Who?"

Johnny sighs. Pony's too curious for his own good. "Some Randy kid. He's a senior."

"Oh, I know Randy," Ponyboy says easily. "I think so at least. Wavy hair? Always wearing sweater vests? Super Soc? He's on the track team with me."

"Randy Adderson?" Darry asks, surprising them.

"How do you know Randy?" Pony asks.

"I did go to that school once upon a time, kiddo. I'm only twenty. He was a sophomore when I was a senior." Darry pauses. "I want both of you boys to stay away from him."

"How come? I always thought Randy was pretty nice for a Soc," Ponyboy says. "You know, he complimented me on my form once. He said a good runner has to have good form, and most boys ignore that. But that my form was the best on the team."

"I'll bet he did," Darry comments dryly. "Johnny, where does he tutor you?"

"The library."

"Are other people around?" Darry asks. Johnny nods. "I guess that's okay then. You come to me if he bothers you."

But before Johnny can contemplate the mystery of Darry's warnings (he wonders if Randy's known to beat kids up, he wonders if Darry suspects Randy's involvement in his own jumping), Two-Bit enters the room.

"What's this I hear about Johnnycake moving into the library? I won't believe it!" Two-Bit laughs. "Hey, where are my eggs, Darry?"


	8. Chapter 8

Johnny shouldn't have had that fifth whiskey. And he shouldn't be at Buck's. It's not just the bad music, or the dried up hillbillies at the corner pool table frowning at him like he's too young to be there, or the police raid that happened last week and might just happen again tonight. He shouldn't be there because Dallas is trying to set him up with a girl again.

Dally sure gets a kick out of Johnny's red cheeks and embarrassed, shy stuttering whenever a girl is brought into the mix. But he's a good friend. He doesn't introduce Johnny to those girls to a get a rise out of him. It's like he thinks he's doing his duty as Johnny's older, more experienced friend. He'll wink at Johnny from across the room as the girl flirts, or he'll sling his arm around Johnny and whisper advice in his ear. _If you insult her, she'll keep coming back. Say something offensive._ Or: _Push her against the wall and kiss her without asking. Chicks dig that aggressive shit._ Even if Johnny did want a girl, he wouldn't follow that advice.

The music is going, a guitar so twangy it ought to be played around a campfire accompanied by beef and beans, and a voice so corny-poke it's practically yodeling. _I got a feelin' called the blu-u-uues, oh lord, since my ba-by said goodbye..._ Soda's on the other end of the room talking horses with some rodeo boys; he's probably the only person at the party not drinking. Sylvia's there. Johnny watched her go upstairs with Dally not ten minutes ago, after Dally had introduced Johnny to a grease girl named Bev and promptly abandoned him, his older buddy obligation for the night fulfilled.

Johnny's sitting on the floor cross-legged, and the room's spinning. It's hard to focus on the conversation. Two-Bit's standing with his arm slung around a new blonde's shoulders (Johnny doesn't know her name), while Steve and his girl Evie are necking (she's sitting on his lap on the easy chair). Bev's wearing a real short skirt and sitting close to him, their outer thighs touching. He doesn't like it.

A couple times Bev put her hand on his knees, all fake casual-like, and the last time her hand grazed his inner thigh. He really doesn't like that, but he don't know how to tell her to stop. He doesn't want to hurt her feelings-he can tell by the prideful way she's smiling at him she seems to think she's doing him some big favor. And he doesn't the boys to get suspicious if they see him push a girl away. Greasers are supposed to like it when tuff girls in short skirts pull those sort of tricks.

And that's the problem. Johnny ain't normal.

Bev, the blonde, and Two-Bit are asking Johnny questions and laughing up a storm at his answers. He normally ain't talkative (to say the least) but this is his first time liquored up in any significant way and he's discovered he speaks before he remembers to stop himself. Johnny doesn't know what they find so funny about his answers, though.

He started drinking tonight so he could pretend to be drunk enough to not go upstairs with Bev if it came to that. But now he really is drunk. He feels out of body, like he can't control what he's doing or saying, and he can't remember what happened only seconds ago. He wishes Pony was there, but Darry would never let him come. That kid would have stopped him at his second drink, instead of laughing as he got more and more wasted.

"So Johnny," says Two-Bit's girl, "who do you think is the best-looking person at the party?" She winks at Bev.

"I don't know." Johnny's words are slurred. "Probably Soda." All of them laugh real hard. Even Steve and Evie's kissing is interrupted by their choked sniggers.

"No, I mean girl. The best-looking girl. Duh," she explains between chuckles. She's sort of nodding her head to her left where Bev is. Johnny's stomach forces something burning up his throat, and he makes himself to swallow it back down. He struggles to stand, the room spinning faster and faster, the floor reaching up and threatening to meet him.

"I need to go to the bathroom."

#

Johnny misses the toilet bowl, and the rim is splattered with the clear, pungent liquid of alcohol and chunks of half-digested potato from his meal of french fries earlier in the evening. Some of the vomit shot off the toilet seat and onto his clothes, splattering across the bleached white t-shirt that Soda let him borrow, and that Darry had taken the time to clean and fold carefully. He feels a wave of guilt before he's forced to curl over the toilet again, dry-heaving five or six times before the next round comes up. He's never made himself sick before, and he suddenly feels a flash of empathy for his old man. How someone could drink himself drunk every night is beyond his comprehension.

Johnny's shaking so bad that he can't hold onto the toilet seat. Large black circles with tiny white specs of stars interrupt the tilt-a-whirl tiles.

A hand is on his back. "Easy, Johnnycake, easy. Just let it out." His hair is being pushed out of his face. He lets it out. It takes a few minutes of nothing before the last acid drops are gone. Then Dally is pulling off his soiled t-shirt and gently slapping his face.

"Don't pass out, man. Drink this," Dally says. He pushes a glass of clear liquid with a Bud logo in his face, but before Johnny even tries to straighten himself, he weakly pushes it away.

"No. No more, Dal. I can't."

"It's water, doofus." Johnny is still sitting on the floor facing the toilet. Dally kneels down behind him and holds him up, Johnny's back against his chest. Dally forces the glass against Johnny's lips; he holds his head at an angle so he's forced to drink. Johnny coughs and spits up, and then Dally's at it again. The second time the water goes down, cooling the acid-burnt, raw tunnel of his throat. The water settles in his stomach uneasily, like it's hitting the bottom of a well, and Johnny presses his palms against the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, absently noticing the mold in the speckling as he resists the urge to puke again.

"That's it," says Dally, as he makes him drink another sip. "You're gonna keep going until this glass is done. And in ten minutes, you're gonna drink another one. Man, what happened? You trying to poison yourself, you idiot? You know one of them Brumly kids died that way last year. Can you stand up? I'm gonna bring you upstairs so you can sleep it off."

When they reach the room that Dally keeps above Buck's bar, the sound of a sad Patsy Cline number becomes muffled as Dally kicks shut the broken-hinged door. He pulls off a used condom from the sheets of the bed and throws it into a pile of trash he's collecting in a brown paper grocery bag. "Not exactly interested in becoming a dad," Dally says, in an offhand, sheepish voice Johnny's never heard.

"Sit down," Dally commands. Johnny leans back on the bed and Dally kneels down and starts unlacing Johnny's shoes.

Johnny's head bobs up and down. He forces himself to straighten. He tries to force to room to be still, but that doesn't work. "How'd you know I was sick?"

"I was coming downstairs and saw Steve heading to bathroom all worried. He told me, and I told him I'd take care of you. I think he wanted to go back to his woman." Dally pulls of a shoe. "Boy, your feet stink!" he laughs.

"Dal, I don't want you setting me up with girls anymore." Johnny's holding on to the edge of the bed for his life. He shouldn't have said that, but he somehow let it slip. He thinks he might puke again, only there's nothing left to come out.

"Look, kid, don't worry." Dally is unlacing the other shoe. "It'll work out next time, you'll see. Just don't drink so much. All you need to do is get laid once, and you'll get the game. You won't be so scared of girls anymore. You don't know how good screwing feels, man. I'm not gonna let you miss out on that 'cause you're too damn shy to introduce yourself."

"Dal, I mean it. I don't want to do this anymore. Please." He's begging. He should shut up. "It's why I got drunk."

"Liquid courage?" Dally peels off the shoe.

"No. I didn't...I wanted to get drunk enough so I wouldn't have to do it. I don't want to."

"What do you mean." But Dally says it as if he knows what Johnny means.

Johnny grasps the edge of the bed to keep himself from slipping off. "Let's just drop it. I ain't feeling good."

"No, I ain't dropping it. I'm trying to do you a favor, getting you a girl, and you don't want her. Why the hell not? That chick was a babe, and she dug you."

"Dally, I don't want to screw girls-"

"Yeah, I know, blah blah blah you're nervous," Dally finishes for him. And then, he stares at Johnny as if he's never seen him before and he swallows. "Right?" Dally, who has made his hatred of queers more open than any of the other boys, stares at him as if he knows. "Right?" Dally repeats. Loud and harsh.

"Come on, man. Drop it," Johnny mumbles. His head is throbbing so hard that every other second the room and Dally is blotched out by black nothingness. He wonders if he should go to the hospital.

Dally bites his lower lip. "You don't want to screw girls because...you don't want to screw girls." His voice breaks over the second half of the sentence, not wanting it to be true. "You a queer?" It doesn't come out quite like a question should.

"Na-no." But Johnny stumbles on the word.

Dally, who more than anybody in the world knows him, _really_ knows him now. Johnny braces himself for a fist to the face, which would probably kill him at the moment, but the seconds pass, and it doesn't come. He can hear Dally's heavy breathing.

"Like you needed one more shitty thing in your life," Dally finally mutters, and starts cussing up a storm.

"Dal, I know you're mad..." Johnny begins, trying to figure out a way to save their friendship, trying to figure out a way to make Dally keep his secret. He's desperate, he's seconds away from losing Dally, the most important person in his life. Johnny tries to stand up, but he's so drunk that he falls to the floor.

"Of course I mad, man! I'm pissed!" Dally shouts.

"Please just-" He tries to right himself, but he's too sauced to stand.

"Do you know what people are gonna do if they find out? Do you have any idea the type of hell queers go through, man? Shoot." Dally pulls his hand through his tow-colored hair. "You better keep this quiet, you hear me, kid? You hear me?" Dally jerks him up. He must see Johnny's queasy look, because he abruptly quits being so rough and steers him back onto the bed.

"You know I always got your back, Johnnycake, but I can't hover around you every second to protect you. And that's what you'll need if you get found out. Damn it!" Dally kicks the bedpost. It rattles. Johnny pulls his arms around his stomach.

"I'm sorry, Dal." There are tears in Johnny's eyes; he's too scared of the consequences of Dally's discovering to consider the meaning of Dally's words. He only gets the anger behind them. "Don't hate me. I know I deserve it, but please don't. I don't mean to be this way."

Johnny's warm all the sudden, warm and suffocated in a comforting way, and Dally's arms are around him. "I don't hate you, kid. Stop crying." He didn't know he was until Dally mentioned it. He guesses that's what liquor does to you.

"I'm disgusting," Johnny whispers into Dally's chest.

"You ain't disgusting."

"That's not what you said about queers before," his voice is muffled by Dally's chest. "You called that guy who everybody was saying was queer pathetic and disgusting and you kicked in his chair that one time you were drunk and we were at the movies."

"Well, it's different now."

"How?" Johnny asks.

"'Cause it's you. And yeah, maybe I do find that sorta thing gross, you know that and there's no getting around it, but, but...what we got is more important than how I feel about that. Other fags are pathetic and disgusting, but not you. And I won't ever let anybody humiliate you for it, or jump you for it, or even give you a rude look. You're my buddy. No matter what. You dig?"

Johnny nods. Even though he doesn't quite get it, how Dally can hate everybody like him, except him. But all that matters is that they're still buddies and it's going to be okay. His head throbs.

"And anyway," Dally reasons, "it's not like you've been with a guy before, and you're still pretty young and probably confused, and you might change your mind once you're with a girl, so it's not like you're _really_ a fag."

Johnny wants to tell him _no, that's not it at all, this is what I am and who I am, even if it's wrong_. But he doesn't say anything, because Dally is being so good to him about it. Because, in his own way, Dally accepts him. Even if he has to rationalize it.

"But you gotta keep it quiet, okay? I mean it. Don't even tell the boys. I'm not saying they'd hurt you, but lord knows Two-Bit can't keep his mouth shut and Pony and Soda'd probably go out and become some sort of activist for the queers or something, making it all obvious, you know how they are. And I don't want you acting on it. If rumor gets out... Johnny, I don't wanna scare you, but that beating? That's gonna be your normal. Promise me something kid?"

"Anything."

"Keep your mouth shut." Dally pauses. "And your legs." Dally ruffles his hair. But he does it gruffly, and Johnny's so sick right now the motion makes him retch again. He can't tell whether or not Dally intended the gesture to be affectionate, but what knows for sure is that there was a hardness to Dally's voice. He meant what he said.

"I promise." Johnny's face is somehow on the pillow, and even though his eyes are closed, everything's still spinning.


	9. Chapter 9

It's Monday, and Johnny's about to be stuck at tutoring again. The remainder of his last lesson was a long, humiliating assessment of every concept he was behind in in Algebra. Apparently, he has about four months of learning to make up, and random pieces of knowledge missing from previous years he needs to "revisit." He doesn't want to show up. But he doesn't have much of a choice. That's not different from the rest of his life. At least he has an excuse for avoiding the gang. He's really not interested in facing Dally any time soon. Or Ponyboy for that matter.

Before Johnny enters the library, he remembers Darry's opaque warning, and he looks around inside to make sure he won't be left alone with Randy if the help lady walks out of the room. There's a least three other people, and they're on school property, so Johnny's safe for now, at least in theory, it's the first lesson he'll be staying the whole two hours. That is, if he lasts.

Johnny walks through the door and takes his seat across from Randy at the desk, who's shifting through hand-scribbled pages in his notebook.

"So, you know your times tables," Randy opens. Except, Randy sort of phrases it as a question.

"Oh course I know them! I'm not an idiot." Johnny's face is flushed. He's dumb, but times tables are elementary school stuff.

Randy holds up his hands. "Okay, okay. Let me finish. What I was going to say, before I was rudely interrupted," Randy says, raising an eyebrow. Johnny hates that. The stupid Soc thinks he's funny when he's not. "What I was going to say is," Randy continues, "multiplication is like a fast way of adding, if you think about it. It's like the adding shortcut."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is. Stop being ornery. It's like adding a number to itself, over and over, so you don't have to take the time to write it out. Three times six, stated differently, is the same thing as three plus three plus three plus three plus-"

"Got it." Johnny rolls his eyes. "So what? What does this have to do with roots? And don't call me ornery. I'm not a horse."

"Forget roots. We're talking about exponents first."

"The little numbers?" Johnny mumbles. He hates asking questions. It means he's too dumb to know what he's supposed to know. It's easy to sit in the back of the classroom and pretend to follow along when there's twenty other students in the class. But one-on-one is different. He has to ask or it's gonna be obvious real quick that he doesn't get it.

Randy suppresses a smirk. "The little numbers," he agrees. "So, if multiplication is the adding shortcut, exponents are the multiplication shortcut. Do you get it?"

Johnny rubs his hands on his legs. He doesn't look at Randy.

"Let's say we have three to the sixth power, that's a big three and little six in the upper right, understand?"

Johnny nods.

"That's the same thing as three times threes times three times-"

"I get it." And Johnny doesn't roll his eyes this time. Because those little numbers…when he first looked at them in class, he gave up before he even tried. They looked they were gonna be hard, and he got nervous.

"So if three times one is three, three to the first power is...?"

"Three?"

Randy smiles. It's a genuine smile, a real smile. A smile that doesn't belong on a Soc, especially this one. "Good. What is three to the third power?"

Johnny takes a minute to think. If three times three is nine, what is nine times three? Twenty-six? He counts it out in his head. "Twenty-seven."

"Excellent," Randy says. "I want you to memorize this table." He rips out a piece of notebook paper.

Johnny looks down at the careful, miniature script. The columns are labeled as bases, the rows, exponents. The lines were drawn crisply with a ruler, faint evidence of erased pencil marks wherever the lines had accidentally been sketched too far. Both the columns and the rows stretch twelve places in each direction. Johnny checks the remaining exponents for 3:_ 3, 9, 27, 81, 343, 729..._ He covers the paper with his hand and looks up.

"How long did this take you?"

"Not long," Randy lies. His eyes shift sideways-he's bad at it. "It's not a big deal," Randy says quickly, knowing he's been caught. Caught being kind, which, considering their positions in life, considering their destiny as sworn enemies because the clothes they wear and the way they style their hair and money, always money-even if Randy hadn't jumped him in the past-kindness is the worst possible crime.

"I'm going to show you how to chart this on a graph. Visually it will make more sense."


	10. Chapter 10

"So how was tutoring?" Soda asks, but before Johnny can answer, Soda slaps a cancer stick out of Two-Bit hands. "Cut it out, will ya? We're at a gas station, for Christ sake. I don't want this place going up in flames."

Two-Bit roll his eyes. Johnny sighs in relief, hoping with the distraction they'll forget Soda's question.

"Yeah, how was it, Johnnycakes?" Steve asks. No such luck.

Johnny scowls and crosses his arms. "It sucked."

Except, what sucks is that it didn't. Even hanging out at the DX, distracted by his buddies, he can clearly picture the upward slope on the graph, rising increasingly with each exponent. Math (or at least this little bit of math) is not witchcraft anymore. It's not something he throws into the cauldron that comes out correctly because he followed the ingredients, or at other times explodes for no explicable reason. Johnny understands why it works. He hates Randy, and he hates even more being obligated to Randy like he is now. But even more than that hate, he likes how it feels to be a person who can learn something. He can't tell that to the boys.

"Why don't you drop out and join me and Soda?" Steve asks. "You hang around here enough anyway."

"Don't listen to those fools, Johnny," Two-Bit advices, sage-like. "Stay in school as long as possible. In fact, I'd advise you to fail the year deliberately so you can stay as long as possible. Shoot, I'm nearly nineteen and only a junior. At school you got it made, kid. You don't have to work. You can flirt with the hot teachers. You can harass the old ones. School's a breeze."

"We got a customer," Steve mutters.

It's an old lady, so old she has white hair that she still keeps tidy. She's wearing a cardigan, pearls, a plain brown skirt that reaches her calves, and brown stockings, like she looked at a cartoon of an old lady to figure out how to dress.

"Do you need help m'am?" Soda asks, his famous charming smile spread across his face.

"Is that you, Jimmy?" she asks, addressing Johnny. He looks around, trying to figure out a way to avoid her. No such luck again.

"I knew it was you! You're looking taller, Jimmy." He's definitely not any taller since she's last seen him. The lady gives him a hearty pat on the arm and Johnny goes red. He doesn't correct her and tell her his real name. After all, he doesn't remember her name. But he knows exactly who she is. The piano player.

"We've missed you at church, you know," the old lady says. Johnny tucks his hair behind his ear as she waits for him to answer. When he doesn't, she asks, irritated, "Well, where have you been, mister?"

"Um, I, uh..."

Her voice softens at his floundering. "You're always welcome in the Lord's house, sweetheart. Every Sunday, same time, same place." Two-Bit snickers, and only their tenuously held employment keeps Soda and Steve from doing the same.

"Well, it was nice running into you, Jimmy. I hope to see you in church." The old lady turns around, but of course he can't be let off that easy. She turns back towards him, stepping even closer this time. "Oh, I know just the thing!" She actually claps her hands together in excitement.

"There's an ice-cream social tomorrow night after Bible study for young people like yourself. And I don't know how long it's been, but Rev. Thompson retired. There's a nice young man who's taken his place, and he's really proactive about all sorts of modern stuff! He started up a youth group, and he's very political. The teenyboppers really get real kick out of this one." She winks at him. "Plus, there's a few girls who will be there who are real lookers. There's Mr. Carter's daughter, she's fourteen, about your age, isn't that right? She's just your type, I'm sure. A blonde one." And just when Johnny didn't think he could get any redder, the old lady says, "The Lord's waiting for His sheep to return to the fold," and pats his back.

_Who was that? _Two-Bit mouths between chuckles.

Once the piano lady is out of earshot, Soda shouts, "Our Johnny here is a lost sheep that needs to return to God's flock!"

"Baaaa!" Two-Bit goads.

"Baaaa!" The three of them bleat in unison.

"Cut it out, guys!" Johnny mutters. But they keep laughing and bleating.

Johnny and Pony used to go to church together. He liked it a lot, too. It made him like there was more to life than Tulsa and Socs and greasers. Like there was a bigger meaning to it all. Johnny enjoyed sinking into the pew in the back and listening as the old preacher went on and on about getting saved and the Kingdom of God and surrendering and submitting to a higher power. All of that really appealed to him, too. He wasn't sure whether or not he believed in them magic choirs of angels and stuff, but he wanted to. And it was sure nice to be there, because the middle-class people who had crew cuts and yellow dresses smiled politely at him and Pony and shook their hands even though they were dressed like trash. He'd never had middle class people be nice to him before. Ponyboy stopped showing up after Steve, Soda, and Two-Bit tagged along and made a huge embarrassment of them. But Johnny kept on going, in secret. He didn't want the gang to think he was getting all religious on them or anything.

But one day, the nice old pastor retired, and the church got a new one. And the new one was real into the Old Testament and liked to preach about how the country had gotten godless like the Israelites in the desert, and how the wrong sort of young people were turning it into a nation of sinners and it was up to the right sort of young people to smite them. And he preached about the moral depravity of the hippies, and the negroes who'd gotten uppity, and the pill making women into prostitutes, and the homosexuals who were taking over, and the homosexuals' revolting perversions that were sins against nature and God. Johnny stopped showing up after that. He hates himself enough without having to be reminded why every Sunday.

Johnny wonders if God's real. Sometimes he wants God to be real, because it means all the horrible things that happen happen for a reason. Sometimes he wants God to be make-believe, because if He ain't, it means Johnny's going to hell for being a queer.

Soda stops laughing first. "What's the matter, Johnny? We're just joking around." Soda pulls him into a hug, holds him down playfully, and messes up his hair. But Soda's voice is serious when he asks, "You okay, Johnnycake?" Steve and Two-Bit's laughter quiets down.

"I'm fine," Johnny answers. But they all know he doesn't mean it.


	11. Chapter 11

Johnny hasn't seen Dally alone since his drunken confession. Johnny knows he's partially responsible for that absence. He's gone to every tutoring session this week, starting from Monday's when he learned about exponents, until Friday's, when Randy spent the lesson on a long tangent about how the "Algebraic concepts" Johnny is learning relate to Physics. Physics is a subject Johnny never imagined he'd be smart enough to take. It's Earth Science for kids like him.

Randy's a conceited, intellectual, privileged jock. Being tutored by him is uncomfortable for Johnny, at best. Those facts haven't changed. But for the first time in his life, he's avoiding Dally and hanging out with a Soc, instead of the other way around. It's a relief he doesn't have to face Dally. He couldn't bear it if Dally looked at him differently, with the disgust that Johnny feels for himself.

If Dally misses him, he hasn't mentioned it. He hasn't been around to mention it. Even though before that night at Buck's Dal and Tim were at each other's throats, they're suddenly paling around again like they're best buddies, which means Dally been spending less and less time with the gang and more and more time cooking up trouble with Tim. Johnny tells himself he's not hurt.

But Friday, when Johnny's exiting the school after his lesson with Randy at his side (still jabbering on about some ball-moving-in-space nonsense), a fancy yellow jacked-up Douce Coupe-just like in that obnoxious Beach Boys song that was played on the radio nonstop three summers ago-is waiting in the school parking lot. It honks at him.

Dally's inside of it.

"Hey kid, get in!" Dallas shouts at him out the window. He honks about six more times, just to be annoying.

Randy raises his eyebrows at him. "Friend of yours?" he asks. He doesn't suppress the sarcasm.

"What's it to you?"

Randy shrugs. "Nothing." He does that thing where he checks on his collar to make sure it's in place. Johnny's noticed that habit of his. He does it whenever he's holding back from saying something. But Johnny doesn't know why he bothers. Randy ain't exactly shy. He goes ahead and says it anyway.

"Is that Dallas Winston?" There's caution in his voice.

"How do you know Dally?"

"I don't, not really. But I know his reputation. You shouldn't hang out with trash like that."

Johnny's body tenses. The lingering guilt he's felt for taking these lessons, for being a traitor-because he _is_ a traitor, to accept help from a Soc-returns in full force.

"If Dal's trash, I'm trash. He's my buddy. We're the same. You got it?" Johnny shoves him. Randy steps back from the force, but just barely.

He doesn't hit him back. He doesn't even seem affected by Johnny's reaction. He rearranges his sweater vest as if he had just been touched by one of the unwashed masses and frowns down at Johnny. "You're not like him," he says, a hint of snobbish approval in his voice.

"One day, I will be," Johnny insists. He turns from Randy and starts descending the long line of steps away from the high school. Behind him, he hears Randy speaking under his breath.

_"__I sure hope not." _

#

"Where'd you get the car?" Johnny asks.

"I borrowed it." Dally grins. Johnny grins back. Even as scared of the police as he is, he can't resist a hot, fast ride.

"Got you a present, too." Dally sounds ridiculously happy about something.

"It ain't my birthday." Johnny runs his hands along the smooth leather of the seat. Dally's not mad at him anymore and the world is perfect.

"Yeah, well, let's pretend it is."

"Where is it?"

"You just wait, Johnnycake. It's gonna change everything." Dallas zooms off, burning rubber. Just like in the song.

Ten minutes later, the house he pulls up to is unfamiliar.

#

She looks to be in her early thirties, about his mom's age. She's pretty, even if the familiar lines on her face reveal thirty years of hardship. Her hair is a shade of red that doesn't exist in nature, and it's sprayed up in a stiff bouffant like the First Lady used to wear. She's wearing a glittery gold dress that clings to her body. It's so short it rides up her thighs.

"I didn't expect you to look this sweet," she says. She's smiling at him, half seductive, but her mouth is also kinda pinched in the way adults mouths get when they are amused by children. "You know, your friend must really like you to go to all this trouble."

Johnny doesn't make a move away from the doorway. He desperately wishes Dally hadn't shut him in. "Hi," he says.

When she stands up off the bed she doesn't bother to straighten and pull down her skirt like most girls would. "You're cute," she says, stepping towards him, her hips swaying in a practiced manner. It almost looks like she belongs on stage. "Most of the guys I meet this way are creeps." Johnny wishes he could back away, but there's no where to go.

She touches his shoulder and lets her hand graze down his arm. Johnny turns his face away.

"It's okay. You don't have to be shy with me. I'll make sure your first time is real good. The best." She looks sad. Like she's said this too many times before.

He knows if he stays any longer, he's going to try to force himself to do it, to make Dally happy. And he doesn't even know if forcing himself would work. He would do anything for Dally. He would kill for Dally. Shoot. He would _live_ for Dally. But he can't do this. He wants to die. To die of shame right there.

"I'm sorry," Johnny says. "I'm sorry." His hand is on the doorknob behind him, and a second later, he's out the door.

#

"That cost me fifty bucks!" Dally bangs his fist on the steering wheel. "Jesus, Johnny. You know how long I've been saving that with the bills I have to pay? We need a safety net if one of the boys ever gets in trouble, and I just wasted it on you. You know I only get so much from riding those ponies. Now get in the car!" It's a command this time. Not an invitation.

Dally can be pissed off all he wants. Johnny's pissed off right back. "How could you do that to me?" Johnny accuses. He kicks the passenger door. "I told you! I _told you_ I didn't want to."

"Quit acting ungrateful. I go outa my way to help you-"

"You went outa your way to help yourself, Dallas." Johnny has never spoken back to Dally before. Never. He reckons now is about as good a time as ever to start. "Just 'cause you don't like what I am doesn't mean you can force me to change it. I don't like it either, okay? But I'm stuck like this."

"I swear to God if you were anybody else I'd beat the living shit out of you."

"Go ahead," Johnny offers. "Do it."

Dally gets out of the car and slams the door. The whole car shakes.

Johnny balls his hands in fists. There are tears in his eyes, but he doesn't drop them to the ground. He doesn't cower.

Dally balls his hands into fists as well. They circle each other. They both know who is going to win. Johnny figures he should get in the first punch, so at least later when he's licking his wounds he can still keep a shred of his self respect.

Johnny aims, but Dally blocks it and shoves him to the ground. He doesn't get on top of him and pound him, which is usually the next step once someone's down. Instead, he steps back. For the first time in his life, Dallas Winston actually shows self-restraint. Johnny gets up, and gets back into a fighting stance.

"Come on," Johnny goads. "Don't hold back." He's never been angrier. Johnny aims at him again. This time, instead of merely blocking the punch, Dally grabs his arm, twists it, and flips him over onto his back.

"Give up!" Dally demands. He steps away from him again.

Johnny's pulling himself up, ready to go at it again, when Dally grabs him by his t-shirt and shoves him against the car, pinning him there. "Do you want me to beat the shit outa you?" Dally asks. Their noses are almost touching.

Dally's eyes are red. His cheeks are wet.

Johnny swallows and looks down. He's so confused. Maybe he would feel better about things if Dally did beat him up. He's ruined everything, forever. He should have never let Dally know the sort of person he truly is.

Dally shoves him against the car again and backhands him. It leaves a sharp sting on the side of Johnny's face. But Johnny knows it wasn't half as hard as he could have hit him. He's seen Dally fight. Many, many times.

"I asked if you wanted me to beat the shit outa you."

"I don't know."

"That wasn't meant to be a real question." Dally's arms are still hard on him. But his voice is soft. He steps back from Johnny. He drops his hands to his side. He kicks up the dirt with his cowboy boots.

"A rhetorical question," Johnny mumbles.

"What?"

"Randy said questions you don't need an answer for are called rhetorical questions."

It's silent for a few seconds. Dally speaks first. "Look, Johnny. I ain't exactly angry at you."

"Sure looks like it."

"Okay. I am. But it's more than that." Dally gives him a helpless look. He's never looked helpless before. Johnny wouldn't have thought it was possible.

"I always thought... I always thought I could take care of you. Give you everything you needed. Make your shitty life as good as possible. Maybe even make you happy. Protect you or something, I don't know, man. It's stupid. I should have never let myself get sentimental. But the point is kid, I was wrong. Dead wrong. I can't make this okay."

"I'll never be what you need me to be," Johnny says. To himself he thinks, _I'm disgusting_.

"Naw, kid, that ain't it," Dally answers. "I mean, I don't like you being queer. But I'll get over it. What I won't get over is, is... I'll never be what you need me to be. You dig?"

Johnny's breath goes out.

"What?" Dally smiles, but there's joy to it. "Did you think I didn't guess who you want the minute I figured out what you are?"

Dally knows. He knows not only how Johnny feels about boys, but how Johnny feels about Dally himself.

"I guess what I was doing here today... I was hoping it could make you normal, if you only gave it a shot. You're my buddy. And I can't...I can't give you what you need from me. That kills me."

For the most part, Johnny could suppress his feelings. He told himself they weren't a big deal. He told himself it was a stupid, childish idea he'd grow out of. And as long as Johnny convinced himself Dally never really cared about him anyway, it was somehow okay. He spent so much time with Dally, maybe because he wanted to force Dally to care, maybe because he wanted to prove to himself that Dally didn't care.

But Dally cares. And Johnny cares. And Dally is right. He can't love him the way Johnny needs him to.

As long as it was a secret, Johnny at least had the fantasy that they could be together _if only_. He could have lived the rest of his life, never dating, never having sex, never searching for intimacy in anyone else, so long as he had that dream. A thousand times he's imagined a different outcome to Dally's discovery. An outcome where Dally takes him in his arms, and confesses his love, and the two ride away in the sunset. That cheesy. But now that it's all out in the open, and now that Johnny knows for sure it will never happen, he's lost even the fantasy of their future.

For some reason, it doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would. It's almost like he feels…relief.

Johnny gives Dally a sad smile. "Don't be so cocky, Dal. I'll get over you." When he says it, he knows it's true. Eventually he will.

Dally gives him a half-hearted friendly punch on the arm. "Want a cancer stick, Johnnycake?" He holds out the open pack towards him.

He takes one from the pack, puts it in his mouth, and Dally holds the lighter to the end. Johnny takes a satisfied puff and pulls the cigarette out of his mouth.

"Now that's a proper present." He smirks at Dally.

Dally smirks back. The two of them are gonna be okay.


	12. Chapter 12

The following Thursday, Johnny is on his second day of his third week of tutoring. It ain't as bad as he expected. To say the least. Besides yesterday, when Randy got off rambling on and on social justice or something and Johnny nearly fell asleep, everything's gone smoothly.

Randy stays on task and explains ideas clearly and slowly. He's a patient teacher. When he repeats himself, he rephrases what he says, instead of just banging the same words into Johnny's head over and over, expecting him to magically get it, like teachers have done to him in the past. Randy also asks questions riddled with hints. Just enough hints that Johnny is able to figure out the answer, without having been told directly. Johnny likes those moments the best.

It's weird, because he's supposed to hate Randy. He guesses he does hate Randy. But he's started to look forward to coming to his lessons. There's a rush he gets when he understands, and all he wants to do is keep learning and learning. It's almost like being good at school is addictive. Well, he's not good, but he's gotten better. He understands now why Pony's always holed up in his room, reading books. He would be like that too if he could understand things real quick.

The lesson has just started. But instead of handing him notes, or immediately digging into the lesson like usual, Randy asks, "So what are your plans for this weekend?" As if they're old friends.

Johnny gives him a suspicious look before answering. They don't talk about personal stuff. They talk about school. "Nothing, I guess."

"Sounds like a lot of fun," says Randy.

Johnny shoots him a look of contempt, and Randy laughs.

"Come on, I'm just trying to start a conversation. I want to get to know you better since we have to spend so much time together. And anyway, you're too quiet. You should talk more."

"You should talk less."

Randy laughs again. "So I've been told. But since I'm your tutor and all, I figure I'll give you a few socializing tips, okay? First pointer. When someone asks you a question, you actually answer it and engage with that person. And then, you thank them for asking you, and ask them the same question."

"So you want me to ask you what you're doing this weekend?"

Randy puts his head in his hand and shakes. "Not when you phrase it like the task is a death sentence."

Johnny blows up at his bangs. They're so heavy with grease they don't move off his forehead. "So what are you doing this weekend?" Johnny asks, as politely as he can muster. Which isn't terribly polite, because he's irritated at Randy for prying. He doesn't want to get to know him deeper than homework, books, and teacher's dirty looks.

"Why, thank you for asking, Mr. Cade. I happen to have a most horrendous weekend approaching."

"Stop talking like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're in a damn play where the characters wear top hats and tailcoats and have fake British accents. You sound stupid. Anyway, what's so bad about this weekend?"

Randy shrugs. "I'm heading up to North Carolina with my dad. He wants to introduce me to one of his old fraternity pals from back in the day. He's a Dean now at Duke."

"Yeah. Sounds horrible," Johnny answers sarcastically.

"Well, you know how it is," Randy answers, incredulous that Johnny's not agreeing with him. And then, he looks embarrassed. Because he realizes Johnny doesn't know how it is. Not at all. For a moment, they were having a normal conversation. Person to person. Now they're back to being greasers and Socs.

"So how is it?" Johnny asks.

"Do you really want to know?"

"Naw. I was just being nice." Johnny grins at him.

"Jerk," Randy says, without any conviction. Then he gives in, because he suspects Johnny actually does want to know. And even if he doesn't, Randy wants to tell.

"First they're going to insult each other by pretending to compliment each other. 'So I hear you lost that case to the D.A. Too bad. Too bad. You were a mighty good sport about it, though. I say, if I had lost that case in such a manner, no way would I take that standing. How's the Midwest these days?'"

Randy is good at accents. He bends his face to give himself an artificial double chin, and speaks in a grumbly coastal Southern twang, the high-class, slow-talking sort. He sounds fatter somehow, Johnny thinks.

"Then they're going to drink overpriced cognac, reminisce about all the classes they skipped, the women they seduced, the touchdowns they scored, and the freshman they tormented before drunkenly singing the school song. 'Fight! Blue devils, fight!'" Randy fist-pumps the air to the beat.

"And that's not the worst of it. After that comes the life advice, which usually revolves around euphemisms for wearing a condom and not sleeping with lower-class women who have venereal diseases and will try to entrap me in an unsuitable marriage through pregnancy because they're after my money. Since you know, nobody could actually love me if I didn't have any money.

"Finally, when the evening is almost over, my dad's friend is going to say something unbearable. Like, 'you're such a chip of the old block.' Or he'll call my mom a 'real looker.' And then he's going to assure me that I'll get into Duke no question, wink wink. So I'll never know if I actually got in on my own merit or if it was just favoritism."

Randy pauses. "I guess it doesn't really sound that bad."

"No, that actually sounds pretty horrible," Johnny agrees.

"Wow."

"Wow what?"

"I can't believe I just told you all that."

Johnny shrugs. "Guess you needed to get it off your chest."

"Hey, thanks grease."

Johnny frowns at him. From a greaser, being called grease is compliment, a call of camaraderie. From a Soc, it's an insult.

"I'm sorry. I meant...thanks, kid. Thanks Johnny. I appreciate it, you listening. I really do."

Johnny hates the sincerity in his voice. Or maybe he hates himself for not hating it. He doesn't know what to say, so he says the customary thing. "You're welcome."


	13. Chapter 13

By the fourth week into his tutoring, Johnny not only gets exponents, but he gets roots, and he gets order of operations, and he gets factoring. He also gets to tutoring early for the first time. When Randy walks in after him, he nods in Johnny's direction and takes a seat. But instead of taking the seat across from him like he should, he sits directly next to him.

Johnny feels sick deep in his gut; he's jittery and his face grows red with worry. He moves all the way over on opposite side of the chair. Randy gives him a long, suspicious look before opening his notebook.

Their proximity now is glaringly different from what Johnny is comfortable with. It's deeply and profoundly wrong. They're close enough that he can smell Randy's cologne, a sickening pine-scented odor, and Johnny feels like he's going crazy because he starts hearing the boys' voices from that night as soon as he smells it. He has to hold back a gag.

_All out in the dark on your lonesome, grease?_

_Scream as loud as you want. There's no one around to hear you. You think anyone would care if they did?_

It takes Johnny a few seconds to realize he is breathing so heavy it's audible, and he's trembling. He shoots his eyes over at Randy before quickly dropping them. Randy is watching his behavior and smiling, the jerk. He is enjoying Johnny's fear.

Randy scoots over so that the seats of their chairs are touching. Johnny braces his body, holding back his fear, holding back his anger. Randy's taunting him. He has to be. There's no way that was an accident. And Johnny won't give Randy the pleasure of winning.

But then Johnny catches Randy's smile again, and it's odd. It ain't the vicious sort of smirk that goes with taunting. It's almost like the look that Johnny and Pony gave each other when they hid all of Soda's girly pictures and Steve got blamed for it. It's a smile that's happy about a secret. Except, there's something else in Randy's smile, something Johnny can't quite place.

"You _bothered_, Johnny?" Randy asks, his tone lilting with implication. But that can't be right. It can't be. But then, Johnny considers what Randy must think: his sudden trembling, his blushing, his looking down...Christ.

No. Even if Randy did misinterpret his fear for..._that_...there's no way a boy would be that open about it and announce it, right there in the library where anybody could overhear him. Besides, Johnny reasons, Randy's the least queer-looking person he's ever met. He's buff and tall and manly and athletic, and through the grapevine, Johnny's heard he has a girl. Johnny scraps that idea as soon as it comes to him.

All he knows for sure is he hates the smell of that cologne. He hates the proximity of Randy. He hates not understanding what's going on. He pulls his hand through his hair and-

"Jesus Christ!"

"What!" Still on edge, Johnny immediately darts a frantic look behind him, searching the room for danger.

"What do you mean _what_?" Randy finally realizes he's shouting and he drops his voice. "Have you seen your face? What happened?" Though he's whispering now, Randy doesn't disguise the panic in his voice. He reaches out towards Johnny, but Johnny leans so far backward to avoid him he almost topples his chair over.

"Don't touch me."

"What happened?"

It's nothing new. No cause for concern. Last night his dad got boozed up and decided to bash Johnny's head against (and through) the living room wall. He had neglected to do the dishes, or maybe take out the trash. At the moment he can't remember what he did wrong. But whatever the trespass, Johnny's got a swollen bruise on his temple that reaches up into the side of his head for it, as well as some open scratches where drywall cut into him. His hair and his bangs disguise most of it, so he figured he could show up at school without rousing suspicion, not that anyone has ever cared before. He took two handfuls of aspirins this morning to combat the migraine.

"You get into a fight or something?" Randy usually speaks like all Socs speak: in a cool and indifferent tone, as if perpetually bored with all the luxuries life has to offer them. But when Randy asks Johnny that question, he sounds gentle. Randy reaches out again. Instead of retreating this time, Johnny steels himself. Randy grazes his fingers over the bruise on Johnny's temple. "That's pretty bad."

"Come on man, I said don't touch me." Johnny's voice is brittle.

Randy drops his hand. "Or something?" Randy repeats. His voice is soft, the same way Dally's gets soft after his old man hits him. But no. That can't be right. Randy is nothing like Dally.

"I got into a fight," Johnny insists, in a short and snappish way that means the conversation is finished. He can take Dally's pity, sometimes, maybe, but not Randy's. He'll never accept pity from a Soc.

"I've noticed, you know," Randy says. "How you're always bruised up. I don't know anybody who gets into that many fights. Look man, I know it's not cool for me to say it, but it's pretty obvious somebody's beating on you regularly. You know, I worry about you. Some _'friend' _bullying you? That Winston kid, maybe? A few of my buddies and I could take care of him for you."

Shoot, he actually does look _worried_. It's too surreal to contemplate.

"Go fuck yourself."

"Don't worry, you don't have to tell me to masturbate," says Randy calmly, not bothered at all by Johnny's outburst. "How about you tell me who's been hitting you."

Johnny needs to escape. Now. He needs to close his eyes to the concerned face Randy's shooting at him.

"You know, I'm not feeling too good. My head and all, you know, it's been hurting since I, um, uh...fell...off a motorcycle. Do you think we could skip this lesson?"

Randy frowns, and Johnny can see in his face that he has given in. "Sure, kid. Sure. I don't think you're in a good condition to walk, though. Do you have a ride?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Let me drive you. You don't have to go home if you don't want to. I could take you..." Randy thinks for a moment. But as the silence stretches, Johnny knows Randy can't come up with any place where it would be acceptable for them to be seen together. Any place they wouldn't get caught and shunned by their respective people.

"Let's get this straight, Randy," Johnny says, his voice hard, "I don't want your charity, and I don't want your pity. And most of all, I don't want a ride. I hate your car."

"You hate my car? How do you even know what car I drive?"

Johnny gets up and leaves the library without answering. He can feel Randy's eyes boring into him the whole time.


	14. Chapter 14

Johnny and Pony are sitting side by side, ready to start lunch. Two-Bit is sitting across from them, ready to start trouble.

"What do you got for lunch, Pony?" Before Ponyboy can inspect his brown paper bag, Two-Bit snatches it and decides to find out for himself. He takes out the items one by one.

"Baloney and cheese sandwich, on...is this whole wheat bread? Gross. An apple? Peanuts? A bottle of water? Wow. It must be real rough living with Darry. There's nothing in here worth trading, let alone stealing. I'm surprised he lets you eat all the chocolate cake and colored pancakes that Soda cooks up."

Pony groans. "He says I gotta stay healthy so I can get a track scholarship."

Two-Bit whistles. "Better you than me, kiddo."

"Well, what do you got?"

"Lemme check."

"You mean you don't know?" Pony asks.

"My mom packs it for me," Two-Bit says.

Ponyboy and Johnny exchange a look.

"What!"

"You're seventeen. Don't you think you should pack your own lunch?" Ponyboy asks, eyebrow raised.

"You let Darry pack _your_ lunch," Two-Bit accuses, shame-faced.

"Darry's controlling," Ponyboy says.

"Darry likes to look after you," Johnny corrects.

They both look over to see what Johnny's got. It's the same meal as usual. Nothing. There was nothing in the fridge. And there's never any money in his house.

Pony pushes his sandwich over to Johnny. "You can have it. I don't know why Darry always insists on giving me pepper jack, when he knows I don't like it." Except, Ponyboy loves pepper jack.

"Nah, Pony, I ain't hungry." Johnny slides it back over.

"This pepper jack ain't going to eat itself," Ponyboy says. He doesn't push the matter and hand him the sandwich again, but he bites into his apple, just in case.

A hand drops on Johnny's shoulder startling him so bad that he jumps in his seat.

"Sorry to bother." It's Randy. He slides onto the bench directly next to Johnny, as if it were perfectly natural for him to sit there. Johnny tries to tell him through looks alone that he'd better go away, but Randy doesn't seem to get the message.

Two-Bit stands up and leans over the table. "What do you want, punk?" That probably got the message through.

Randy shakes his head, amused. He ignores Two-Bit and hands Johnny a folded white sheet of paper. "I couldn't wait for our session to show you," he says, speaking quickly, like he's really excited about some big news.

Johnny stares at it, wondering what could possibly be important enough for Randy to disobey every unwritten social rule regarding the boundaries of greasers and Socs in the cafeteria.

"Well, open it!" Randy insists.

Johnny unfolds the paper. It's his hand writing. There are ten math problems. In red markings at the top of the page is written "95%." Johnny examines the quiz. He answered nine problems perfectly, and one he received partial credit for, because he got the formula and steps correct, but the arithmetic wrong in one place.

"It's that quiz you retook," Randy says, unnecessarily. "I stopped by Mr. Johnson's office right before lunch."

The two of them stare at each other. For a second, Johnny forgets that his buddies are watching. That, indeed, a lot of the students nearby are peering over to get a good look, because greasers and Socs in close proximity during lunch usually mean an interesting fight is about to start. All he can think about in that moment is the pride that's overwhelming him, reaching up and knotting his throat. He's looking at Randy, smiling broadly, but his eyes are stinging like he's going to cry. Grades shouldn't matter like this. School shouldn't matter. But here is proof. Physical evidence that he's not retarded like everybody thinks he is. Like he thought he was.

"Thanks," Johnny chokes out.

"It was all you," Randy says. "I didn't take that test." He pats Johnny on shoulder again and stands up. "Guess I better get going." But his eyes catch something on the table. Or, more accurately, his eyes catch an absence from the table.

"Hey, kid, where's your lunch?" Randy casually asks.

Johnny clears his throat. "I forgot it."

"Why don't you go buy some?"

"I forgot money."

"Why don't you put it on a tab?"

Johnny's face turns red in shame. He's already built up a tab that's too long gone delinquent. He's not allowed to buy anymore lunch until he pays back the $6.03 that he owes.

"Why don't you shut up?" Two-Bit answers for Johnny.

"Hey, what's your problem?" Randy genuinely has no idea what he's just brought up. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a crumbled bill, and drops it on the table in front of Johnny. Johnny stares at it in disbelief.

"Really, I'm just not hungry," Johnny says. "I ate this huge breakfast-"

"Don't worry about it. You can pay me back later." Before Johnny can protest further, Randy turns around and walks away. Johnny thinks for a second of chasing after him to give it back, but he's pretty sure Randy wouldn't take it, and then it would cause a scene and he'd be even more humiliated. He looks at the bill on the table. He couldn't bear to pick it up and use it. To shame himself like that.

Ponyboy and Two-Bit are staring at him.

"That was weird," says Two-Bit, breaking the ice. "How much is it?" Two-Pick picks it the bill and unfolds it. "Wow." He holds it out for Johnny and Ponyboy to see.

Twenty dollars.

Twenty dollars.

"Wow, is right," Ponyboy says. Because there really is nothing else to say. It's an enormous amount of money. Enough money for almost three weeks of lunch.

"He must really like you," Ponyboy concludes.

"Naw," Two-Bit says. "He's just really rich."

Two-Bit hands Johnny the bill, and Johnny shoves it into his pocket. As soon as their next lesson starts, he's going to give it back.

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

Randy never gave him the chance to pay him back. Johnny tried to return it, that same bill which he was too proud to use, but Randy acted like he had no idea what Johnny was talking about.

"What money? I don't remember that."

"You lent it to me. I'm returning it."

"I think I might recall _giving_ you money, but even that doesn't exactly ring a bell." The conversation went on like this for five minutes before Johnny gave up.

It's been three lessons since they first sat next to each other. Randy hasn't mentioned his bruises again. But he consistently sits next to Johnny now. It's stopped being weird.

"So. The Civil War," Randy begins. He flips open a copy of Johnny's American History textbook, the page he's looking for already dogeared, highlighted, and filled with his neat script in the margins.

"What about it?"

"Your unit test is coming up," Randy answers. "Have you started studying?"

Johnny groans. "It's so boring."

"I'll take that answer as a no."

"Look, I know the Civil War was important. But I wish we didn't have to memorize dates and stuff. I mean, who cares about exactly when a battle was fought, and exactly where it was? I wanna know about the real story. The real people. I wish, you know, we could read _Gone With the Wind_ instead."

"That movie was bullshit," says Randy. "Historically inaccurate bullshit."

Johnny straightens his posture. "What are you talking about? That movie was brilliant." He's repeating Pony's words, but he agrees with them, even if they aren't his own. "And I've been meaning to start the book."

"Brilliant? Brilliant! The whole thing was a just big justification of slavery and racism with a backdrop of pretty sunsets. Don't tell me you buy that crap. You're smarter than that. There's a cultural revolution happening now, Johnny, and-"

Jesus. Randy's gonna go on another hippie speech. He's done that to him twice already, assuming Johnny would feel the same. It's weird, because he's so well dressed and rich, but he talks exactly like those crazy people Johnny's seen in the news. The sort of people that the new minister had warned were taking over the country. Once Randy passionately rambled on about "being the catalyst of changing social mores and opening this country to the idea of sexual freedom and unconventional sexual expression" and he looked to Johnny as if that had some special meaning for him, and another time he droned on about "abandoning the oppressive structures endowed to us by our parents' generation and living in true autonomy and peace." Johnny thinks some of those words are made up, or else Randy's just showing off.

"Cut the lecture, Randy. I liked it. I liked the movie and I'll like the book when I read it and I don't fancy hearing you tear it apart. It's a nice story about real heroes."

"Real heroes?" Randy rolls his eyes.

Johnny bites his lip when he hears the contempt in Randy's voice. _Gone With the Wind_, as corny as it might sound, means something to him. Sitting in the back of the darkened theater next to Pony, looking out at the pink and golden sunsets on the screen, at the fallen heroes, and the crumbled plantations, at the brave women with gumption enough to pick up their lives after everything was lost...he remembers feeling like he could be somebody. Like a small life like his actually mattered in the grand scheme of things, or at least had a place. Melly, Ashley, Scarlett, Rhett–Rhett, who was Dally, sarcastic and dashing and a crook but the bravest gentleman beneath it all–he had fallen for them all. And this Soc wasn't gonna take those feelings away from him because the movie fell short of his politics.

"You heard me," Johnny says. "Real heroes who ride into sure death 'cause they're gallant. Real heroes who fight for a cause greater than themselves. Real gentlemen who die with honor. But maybe that don't appeal to the sort of cowards who hide behind college so they don't have to get drafted."

There is no disguising Johnny's contempt. It's the same contempt every greaser feels for the rich kids who don't have to watch their loved ones shipped away. Who don't have to watch them return with missing limbs, or not return at all. Who don't have to dread the letter.

"Is that remark aimed at me?" Randy asks, affronted.

"I don't know. You're supposed to be the smart one here. What do _you_ think?"

"I think the war is stupid and there shouldn't be a draft at all. If I weren't going to college, I'd go to prison before I'd go to war."

"Coward," Johnny mutters.

Randy shuts the textbook, any plans to study now abandoned in the heat of the argument. "I supposed you'd make a fine soldier, hmmm Johnny Cade? What do you weigh, a hundred pounds soaking wet? You can't even carry a conversation without coughing because you've destroyed your lungs from smoking so many of those damn cigarettes. You know you have to be physically fit to serve, don't you? Have you ever even tried out for a sports team? I'd love to see it. The army wouldn't even take you if you got drafted."

Johnny's blood is boiling. All the more because what Randy says may well be true. "It would take me and I'd be proud to serve!"

"Proud to die, more like it."

They've both seen it, broadcast on the television. And even Johnny can acknowledge...it doesn't exactly look beautiful. He wish he could forget the images he saw over the summer, just before school started, when his dad was watching the war report. American troops were using their zippos to light the thatched roofs some poor village on fire. Every house, one by one. He could see the old people crying and begging, he could hear screams of children in the background. It made Johnny sick, thinking about what it would be like to be stuck in a burning building like that. And in the _Gone With the Wind_, it was Sherman's army, the bad guys, who did all the burning of the towns, who destroyed Twelve Oaks and the old ways. And now Randy's saying the movie got it wrong about who the bad guys were. Johnny wishes things made more sense. But he doesn't think war is like math, a problem to be figured out by reason alone.

"I would be proud to die," Johnny insists, but his voice has gone quiet, uncertain.

"You want to...die," Randy clarifies. "In war. The war that people are starting to protest, and trust me, if it doesn't end soon it will only get worse. Am I hearing you right? Why the hell would you want to do that?" Randy's anger is gone. It is a serious question.

"I don't know if I _want_ to die exactly," says Johnny, looking away. His anger is gone now, too. He shrugs his shoulders. "But maybe I wouldn't mind it. I guess I don't really got anything to live for," he mumbles. "Maybe if I can't have a good life, I can have a good death, ya know? Maybe that's what I can contribute to the world, dying like a man should, protecting something or someone better than me. I've been thinking about enlisting."

Johnny shudders as he hears the thud of Randy's fist on the table. "Screw this." Randy opens the textbook again, perhaps to forget the conversation and start the lesson, but he can't. He pulls at open page in front of him in frustration, wrinkling it. "It's just so pointless. So pointless. I hate everything. I hate everyone. Why..." he chokes, his voice cut off. "Don't do a stupid thing like that, Johnny. Promise me. Wars, violence...it's all so pointless."

"That's rich, coming from you."

Randy had been pressing his hand against the page, trying to flatten it down. He looks up at Johnny, startled. "And what's that's supposed to mean?"

For the first time, Johnny is one hundred percent certain that Randy doesn't know what he did, or at least, who he did it to. And Johnny won't admit to being jumped. But that doesn't mean he won't tell him off. "Everybody knows you and your buddies jump people," Johnny spits. "And shoot, we all had a rumble only a year ago. So don't act like some damn pacifist."

"Just because I do it doesn't mean I like it. I doubt you like it either," Randy answers softly. He puts his hand Johnny's arm, but removes it reluctantly when Johnny shoulders it away. "Besides, war is a different matter. A skin fight doesn't compare to bombs and rifles. War is serious. And I'm serious. Don't throw away your life and enlist."

Johnny crosses his arms. "Well, Mr. Ivy League, what else am I gonna do with my life? Huh?"

"You could, you could go to college," Randy answers weakly. "Locally or something. Commute."

Johnny raises his eyebrows. "With what money? And what brains?"

"You have brains!" Randy insists. "But okay, I can see your point about the money. So maybe not college. But you could still get a good job. What do you like to do?"

Johnny shrugs. He doesn't like to do much. He spends most of his time trying to avoid getting in trouble with his folks to leave room for recreation. "I like spending time with my buddies, I guess," Johnny begins. "Going to the movies, you know. And um, I guess watching drag races too. And watching Dal at the rodeo. And watching Pony at his track meets."

"So you like watching other people do things?" Randy says, suppressing a laugh. Johnny bites his lip. He has to admit, that doesn't leave him a lot of career options. "I give up," Randy jokes. "You're hopeless."

While that comment would normally put Johnny on the defense, especially after the exchange they just had, Randy says it with a gentle smile. And a rueful laugh that seems more friendly than taunting. Then Randy's face gets serious again. "I meant what I said, Johnny. Don't enlist. I don't want anything bad to happen to you."

He does mean it, Johnny knows. He actually means it. It can't be possible, but it sounds like the Soc _cares_ about him. Johnny wishes...he wishes to God they were still throwing insults at each other. Johnny doesn't want to start caring back.

Johnny thinks about Dally pressing him for months now to tell him who beat him. He thinks about the pain of holding his secret inside himself, every time he passes those boys in the hall, facing them day after day with no retaliation, no vengeance, no justice, all to protect Dally. And there Randy is, sitting next to him at the table and giving him a smile. Like they're friends or something. Shoot.

He's keeping the secret to protect two people now. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.

Johnny jumps as he feels something brush against his hand. And then fingers are grasping his, wrapping around his palm to offer him...assurance, comfort, companionship, secrets. All of that. None of that. Johnny doesn't know. He notices the nail beds on Randy's hand are clean, and the curve of his nails are carefully filed, while his own cuticles are ripped with dried blood and dirt is caked under his nails. He bites his nails when he's anxious, which is often, and this morning he wanted to get out of the house as quickly as possible so he didn't shower. And he spent the night before at the lot. So he's pretty dirty. But Randy doesn't seem to mind. Their hands are clasped under the table, hidden from the view of the other library patrons. Randy gives his hand a squeeze, gives him a significant look that Johnny can't quite decipher, like they're exchanging a secret handshake. Johnny heart jumps, and he tells himself: NO. Randy's just being nice.

Johnny guesses, if they're gonna be nice to each other, they do have to keep it secret, because Socs and greasers ain't allowed to be friends in this town. Not that they're friends. Oh, God. How did he let this happen?


	16. Chapter 16

The next lesson, there's no chance of holding hands. Johnny arrives five minutes late (he'd taken a smoking break after school let out) and a crowd of fifteen students has taken over the library. That Bob kid is one of them. Randy's in the middle of a conversation with him when he catches Johnny frozen at the doorway. He waves Johnny over, smiling like an idiot.

Johnny doesn't know which is worse, being a coward or a fool. He decides coward, so he jogs up to Randy, pretending everything is normal. He feels sick to his stomach. He's riding into sure death, but he sure as hell doesn't feel gallant. Not one bit.

"Hey, Johnny, this is my friend, Bob."

Bob nods at him, his mouth twisted in a sneer, messing up his perfectly symmetrical, Eagle Scout face, and holds out his hand. Johnny doesn't reach for it.

"Johnny, quit being so rude," Randy says.

Johnny gulps. He hopes they don't see it. Bob grabs Johnny's hand without Johnny offering it and gives it a harsh shake. Johnny's practically crushed in his grip, and he feels the cold, punishing weight of Bob's rings press into his bones. Bob doesn't let go. He looks over Johnny's head to Randy, as if Johnny doesn't even exist. "I forgot. Your charity case."

Bob pulls Johnny in tight and pats him on the back three times, hard and threatening. He puts his mouth against Johnny's ear. Johnny recoils. "Nice scar," he whispers. It's quiet enough that Randy can't hear it.

Bob lets go, and Johnny steps back.

"What the hell, Bob!" Randy exclaims. "That was really unnecessary. And he's not my charity case. Johnny could use the tutoring and I could use the teaching experience."

"Oh, so you're using him?" Bob asks. "Glad that's cleared up."

Randy has stepped between the two of them, and Johnny finally feels safe enough to speak. Or at safe enough to mumble. "What is he doing here?"

Randy turns to Johnny and gives him a sympathetic look. "The debate team has use of the library for the next three weeks before the state championships. Bob's the captain."

_Of course he is, _Johnny thinks. He needs to stop trembling. He thinks he might be genuinely sick. He thinks he might vomit right there.

"But don't worry," Randy reassures him. "Even if they have the tables, we can take the comfy chairs in the stacks and study there."

"No."

"No what?"

"No."

"What's the matter?"

"I ain't studying here with him. Them."

"I guess it will be kind of loud with a debate going on," Randy reasons, unaware of Johnny's real concerns. "But where else would we work? The classrooms are locked after hours."

Bob's twisting a ring on his finger. His school ring, the one with a sharp-cut sapphire in the center.

"I gotta go." Johnny turns around. He doesn't even bother to walk. He runs out of the library, dignity be damned.

#

It takes no time for Randy to catch up with him. Johnny is sitting at the bottom of the steps that lead up to the school, catching his breath and coughing. Randy takes a seat next to him. Too close.

"I'm sorry about what happened in there."

Johnny shrugs.

"Bob can be a bit of a jerk."

"I hadn't noticed," Johnny snaps.

Randy frowns. "Okay, so he shouldn't have said that thing about the charity case, but it's not you. That's just how he is. He's the type of guy who needs to be alpha dog in everything, you know? He likes to intimidate people he's unfamiliar with. But once you get to know him, he's a good guy."

"Sure."

"He _is_," Randy insists, like he's trying to convince himself as well as Johnny. "I would know. We went to camp together for four straight summers. We've been best friends since elementary school."

"Too bad for you."

"Oh please!" Randy's through with his patient explanations. "Don't act like your friends are saints. That Two-Bit clown you sit with at lunch shows off his stupid switchblade to random strangers in the hallways. And don't get me started on Dallas Winston. The worst kid in our neighborhood and he's supposedly your 'friend.'"

"He _is_ my friend."

"Well Bob's mine."

There stare at each other as the seconds tick by, neither one giving in. Eventually, Randy blinks.

Johnny stands up, pulls out a cancer stick, and lights up. He's smoking as he walks away. He feels like he just escaped prison, but then Randy's footsteps resound behind him, and the dread comes back.

"What do you _want_ from me?" Johnny asks.

"You shouldn't do that."

"Do what?"

"Smoke. That stuff kills you."

Johnny turns around and blows four steady smoke rings right into Randy's face. "Guess my early death will save taxpayers like your folks some money."

Randy waves away the smoke. "That's not funny."

Johnny smokes faster, even though his throat is a wreck. He wants to make his point, although he's not sure what his point is.

"Do you know what that does to your lungs? There's strong evidence that links cigarettes to several different types of cancer, and-"

"Why do you care what I do?" Johnny walks faster. Randy walks faster.

"You should quit," Randy repeats, ignoring his question.

"Lay off, okay? I can't quit. I've been smoking too long. Since I was nine."

"Your parents let you smoke when you were that young?" Randy actually sounds scandalized. In the way old ladies are supposed to sound scandalized.

Johnny shrugs. The more Randy doesn't know about his parents, the better.

"Do you know what smoking would have done to my athletic career? My dad would kill me if he ever heard I touched the stuff."

"Well, I ain't got an athletic career. I'm probably gonna end up in jail. I hear they use weeds as a barter system or something, so I'm practicing."

"Don't say that," Randy says.

It's difficult for Johnny to keep walking this fast. Considering that fact that Randy's on the track team and a whole head taller, Johnny realizes he's not going to get rid of him this way. He slows down his pace. Randy slows down his pace. Johnny doesn't like how they're next to each other on the sidewalk, their steps in synch.

"It's what you and your friends think about me anyway. Future inmate." Johnny blows more smoke into Randy's face. He doesn't know why he's testing him. Randy could easily beat him if it came to that.

But Randy only waves the smoke away again, and gives him a long, serious look that makes him uncomfortable.

"Maybe I did think that way, a couple weeks ago," Randy admits. "But you're not what I expected from a greaser. All the greasers I've ever met before are busy mouthing off and bragging and talking big. I can barely get a word out of you."

"Go figure. We're not all the same person," Johnny snaps in sarcasm. "I thought you were supposed to be smart or something."

"There we go," says Randy, "that's what I've been missing. So where are we walking to?"

"I don't know where _you're_ walking to, but I'm walking home. It ain't my fault if we don't got a place to do the lessons."

"I'll come with you. We can study at your place."

"What? No!" Johnny stops in his tracks. He thinks about Randy, stepping around the broken bottles that lead to his front porch. Turning the knob of the front door to discover it doesn't work. Tripping on the piles of dirty laundry left on the floor. Noticing the hole in the wall that hasn't been spackled after his dad bashed his head in the other week. Searching for a snack in the empty refrigerator. Meeting his mom, who is definitely at home because she never leaves the house, and possibly still dressed in the same see-through nightgown she's been wearing for the past three days.

"Why not?"

"Because you don't belong on our side of town."

"I don't belong on your side of town? Geez. And greasers are always complaining about us social club kids being the mean, exclusive type. You make me sound like I'm from the wrong side of the tracks or something."

"_I'm_ from the wrong side of the tracks," Johnny clarifies. "So you'd better just stay on your own damn side if you don't want to get jumped."

But Randy only smiles. "You're so cute when you act all scowly and tuff."

Johnny drops his cigarette and stops walking. He checks his surroundings to make sure nobody heard. But nobody's around. Most of the homes in the area were foreclosed years before, and left abandoned ever since.

"You know what else would be real cute?" Johnny asks. He shoves Randy. "If I gave you a black eye."

Randy grabs Johnny and pushes him against a crooked stop sign; the sign is faded orange from years of sun exposure, and the sharp edge of the corroded metal octagon cuts at the back of Johnny's head.

This is it. They're finally going to fight it out. Johnny can feel the hatred rising in his gut. He's prepared, even if he's not strong enough to escape Randy's grasp. He's going to give it everything in him to prove himself.

But instead of hitting him, Randy tightens his grip on Johnny's t-shirt, twisting it in his palm; he leans forward so close that his lips practically touch Johnny's, and he says, "I wasn't making fun of you."

"You said I was _cute_." Johnny accuses through gritted teeth. "How is that not making fun of me? I'm not gonna put up with this, I'll fight you-"

"How do you think I meant it, if I wasn't making fun of you?" He sounds nervous. Like he's just said something that could get him in trouble. Randy is still holding him down, hovering over him. But Johnny realizes that it doesn't feel threatening.

Calling a boy cute is emasculating. He must have meant to offend him. There is no other explanation. Except, Johnny's gut knows there is. He just doesn't want to think about it. The handholding under the desk, the smiles aimed in his direction, the compliments, the worried glances–all of it–now Johnny knows for sure that it was more than some "save the poor" kumbaya crap on Randy's part.

Randy's pushing him down, pressing against him, invading his space. Johnny wants him to. But he has promises to keep. He can't let on that he knows. If he doesn't acknowledge it, it doesn't exist.

"Stop touching me," Johnny orders.

Randy lets him go.

"I can wait," Randy says. "I can wait a long time. As long as you need." Johnny decides to ignore that comment.

They keep walking in silence. No matter what pace Johnny walks, Randy's by his side.


	17. Chapter 17

By the time they reach his neighborhood, Johnny has decided he's headed to the Curtis house instead. Even though the place is not exactly fancy, Darry is house-proud. He repaired the porch beams only last month, and added a fresh layer of green paint to the entire outside of it over the summer. He rakes the leaves and burns them on Sundays. Darry's actually kinda crazy about keeping up with that house. He's always assigning Pony and Soda chores, too. It's like he thinks there's something of his folks left inside the woodwork. Johnny can't blame him. He kinda feels the ghosts of them, too.

Even though it's been over a year, every time Johnny walks inside their home, it feels like something's missing. Only four months ago he nearly asked Soda where his mom was when he entered the living room and she wasn't there to great him. Somehow, in that split second, he'd forgotten they were gone for good.

But even if it is missing its essential core, the Curtis house is a house Johnny can be proud of. And it's the only house Johnny has ever really belonged in. If Randy insists on following him, Johnny will let him believe that place is his home. It's close enough to the truth. And besides saving him from complete humiliation, heading there comes with a bonus: Randy won't want to come in when he sees the gang loitering around. Johnny thinks of how his friends must look to clean-cut, perfect Randy. Like a bunch of no-count hoods. For once, he's glad about that.

Of course, the best laid plans of mice and men...Johnny's not a hundred percent sure what that phrase means, but Randy's used it before, and he thinks it applies to him just now. Because he has to pass his home first to get to the Curtises' and his parents are standing on their porch.

Screaming at each other.

"Get the fuck outa this house! You liar! You cheater!" his mom screeches. She has a glass in her hand–of water maybe, but more likely liquor–and she throws it at his dad, who ducks just in time. The glass shatters against the wall of the house. She's in her nightgown.

His dad, who is shirtless, his hairy, stretched-out stomach open for the entire public to view, lunges at her, but she grabs a wooden chair and holds it out in front of her like a shield. The chair has one leg missing, and as long has Johnny can remember, it has sat alone, crookedly propped up and alone on his porch.

"You crazy bitch!" his dad cries as he grabs the chair and tries to pull it down. He's definitely been drinking. Johnny can hear it in his slur. Johnny has stopped to stare.

Randy gives Johnny an awkward look, like he's embarrassed for these two strangers who don't have enough pride to be embarrassed for themselves. "Wow," Randy says, an uncomfortable smile on his lips. Like he doesn't know whether he's amused or disgusted. "Just...wow. I have no words." He gives Johnny one of those buddy-buddy looks, like Johnny should be sharing in the entertainment. Johnny's dad grabs the chair. He lifts it over his head.

Johnny's out of breath, standing in front of his mom, pushing her behind him.

She shoves him. "Git out of my way!" Johnny now knows, judging by the stench of her breath, that she's been drinking, too. "This is between me and your loser of a father! You just git!"

Johnny ignores his mother's warnings, and keeps in front of her.

"Come on, dad, put the chair down." His voice is shaking. He hates it when his folks are at each other's throats, which is often. He does his best to stay as far away from the house as he can when they're going at it. But he can't stand by and exchange smug glances with Randy as he watches his Ma get pummeled with a chair. That's a whole 'nother level of avoidance and denial he's not ready for.

"Don't you tell me what to do, you little shit," his dad says. "You heard your mother."

"Come on, dad. The neighbors are gonna call the cops if you two keep this up. Can't you take it inside?" Johnny pleads.

His dad drops the chair. Johnny breathes a sigh of relief, until the old man steps towards him. "I'm sick of your insolence, boy." His dad tries to point at him, but his aim is off slightly, so he points at the broken love seat behind him that's hanging off of one long chain. "Goddamn sick of it. You're a little shit. That's what you are."

"Dad-"

"Don't you _Dad_ me!" Johnny's father may be too drunk to have good aim, but he's close enough that Johnny's impossible to miss. He backhands him so hard that Johnny crumbles to the ground, knocking into his Ma.

When Johnny tries to stand, his dad lets in with his feet, kicking him in the chest, the shoulder, and finally the crotch, although Johnny guesses he'd been aiming for his gut each time. Johnny doesn't fight back. He never does. And after that last kick, he can't. He curls into himself on the floor, grabbing at his crotch and seeing black.

"Get your hands off him."

The darkness recedes, and in his line of vision are recently shined brass-colored penny loafers, gray tartan socks, and the double-stitched hem of expensive floods. Randy.

Johnny sits up and sees all of him. His cocky, All-American, golden boy face is furious. His perfect jock body is hovering menacingly over Johnny's dad.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" his old man asks.

"My name is Randy Adderson. You know, of the Tulsa Addersons. We're pretty well know. And I meant what I said. Don't you dare touch him."

Johnny doesn't know if he's more humiliated or grateful. He tries to pick himself up, and he does, but the pain in his body is still throbbing, starting from his crotch and working its way to his fingertips and toes. Humiliated, Johnny decides. He's definitely more humiliated.

"Look here, you smug sonofabitch, I can discipline my son however I want."

"Actually, your behavior falls under the criteria for assault and battery. This is domestic abuse and it is punishable by law for up to twenty years in prison." Randy's normally annoyingly know-it-all tone is a godsend. "You had better hope I don't report it. My dad's a lawyer who locks up ten people like you behind bars before he finishes lunch. And he's friends with powerful people. Let me correct myself. He _is_ the powerful people. You know who was over my house for dinner last night? Judge Clemming. The same judge you're going to have to explain yourself to if you so much as pat him on the back too hard ever again. You hear me?"

"Are you kidding me?" Johnny's dad asks, incredulous.

"Does it sound like I'm kidding?"

Johnny's dad kicks at the broken chair on the floor and aims a finger at Randy. Or slightly to the left of Randy. "This ain't none of your business, you nosey little prick. What has the world come to when I can't even discipline my own son? Huh?"

But Mr. Cade goes back in the house, defeated, muttering and cursing Randy and the whole world that has gotten out of hand and doesn't understand how to bring up children anymore and can't a man have privacy in his own home?

Johnny's mom brushes past him. "Now see what you did? I told you to go away. You always make things worse. Because of you the cops are gonna be harassing this family." She gives Johnny a contemptuous glare, then she gives Randy the same look, and then she follows her husband inside.

There is a long pause. Randy breaks it. "Are you oka-"

"I'm fine." Johnny hardens his voice. He hardens his face. He hardens his heart. It's the only way he can get through this.

"So your dad's some hot-shot prosecutor, huh? Puts thugs like me in prison?" Johnny asks, to change the subject.

"Actually, he's a contract lawyer who works in the financial sector. Big business type stuff. I don't really understand it. So yeah, I was kinda bluffing. But we did have the judge over for dinner last night." His voice is shaking when he speaks. It's strange, because he sounded so strong only seconds before.

Randy tugs at his collar. _Don't do it,_ Johnny begs internally. _Just keep your mouth shut for once. _

"Johnny, I'm so sorry..."

"About what?" Why can't Randy just pretend it didn't happen? "You didn't do nothing wrong."

"Anything. Don't use a double negative," Randy corrects out habit. "Anyways...I'm sorry you have to come home to that."

And then Randy does something entirely unexpected. Even more unexpected than pushing Johnny up against the stop sign. He gasps a few times, and sniffles, and he cries. He cries right there on the porch. Kind of loud, too.

"Randy, Jesus..." Johnny starts, irritated. He doesn't need this now. He doesn't know how to handle tears. He turns away so he doesn't have to see it. "Come man, pull yourself together. What the hell?"

"Why didn't you hit him back?" Even though Randy's voice is strangled between his sobs, Johnny can clearly make out what he asked.

Johnny shoves his hands in his pockets. "He's my dad."

"That man is no father," Randy lets out bitterly. "And that woman is no mother."

"Don't talk about them that way. They're my parents."

"They don't deserve a kid like you. Not when they abuse you like that."

"Look, Randy. It ain't abuse, okay? For it to be abuse I'd have to be a victim. And I'm not a victim. I'm a bad kid. A hood. I kinda have it coming to me, you know?"

"You _have it coming to you_?" Randy mimics. "Are you serious?"

Johnny raises his voice. "I don't care if he hurts me. He's my dad. If he wants to holler at me, I let him holler. If he wants to beat me, I let him beat me. So mind your own business. I don't need you to save me. I'm fine."

"Johnny, that is so screwed up. Listen to me-"

"_I'm_ the one who's screwed up? Look at you. What a wimp. You're crying and meanwhile I'm the one who just took the beating. And it wasn't even a beating. It was a few slaps that would have been over soon enough even if you didn't get all meddlesome.

"You know what? You've been so spoiled your whole life so you don't know how ignore the small things like this. That's what your problem is. Just get over it, okay? It don't bother me none."

"I'm crying because it should bother you."

Johnny turns away. "Just go. Get away from me."

"Johnny, please. Listen. I can help you-"

"I said go away."

So Randy does.

TBC


	18. Chapter 18

"What are you writing?" Ponyboy asks. He takes a bite of his sandwich. "I don't think I've ever seen you do an ounce of schoolwork."

"You still haven't," Two-Bit answers. "This ain't school work. It's top secret."

Ponyboy and Johnny grin at each other and lean over the lunch table, trying to catch a glimpse.

Two-Bit gives them a mischievous look and covers the page with his hand.

"Aw, come on, man!" Johnny says.

"You really wanna know what I'm writing?" Two-Bit asks.

"What do you we have to do, Two-Bit, beg?" Ponyboy says.

Two-Bit raises an eyebrow."I wouldn't mind a little begging."

"Please," Ponyboy implores, half-laughing at his deliberate whininess, "please, please, please."

"It's a love letter," Two-Bit mumbles sheepishly.

"A love letter!" Pony nearly shouts. Johnny bites back a grin. "Let me see it."

"No, Pone, it's private."

"If it were private you wouldn't have started writing it in front of us. Come on. Who're you in love with?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." Two-Bit shakes the letter in front of Ponyboy, high up enough that it is just out of his reach, taunting him. Ponyboy stands on his tiptoes and snatches it out of Two-Bit's hand.

_"__Dear Isabel,"_ Ponyboy reads out loud,

_"__It is hard for me to describe in mere words how ardently I admire you." _Ponyboy raises an eyebrow at Two-Bit, copying Two-Bit's own gesture for amusement.

_"I entered this institution with the sole purpose of expanding young minds and sharing my knowledge, but I've discovered quite suddenly that there is more to life then books_–'than' should be spelled with an 'a'–_for it is not only knowledge that I'd like to share with you."_

"That's pretty dirty," Johnny says.

_"__The other day, when you passed me in the hallway, you were wearing your tweed frock_-Two-Bit, are you sure 'frock' is the right word?-_and I couldn't help but imagine how that garment would look, crumbled_–do you mean crumpled?–_next to my bed. Indeed, my dear, my sweet, my beloved, for weeks now I have longed to take you in my arms and-"_ Pony stops speaking. He shakes his head and tuts at Two-Bit.

"And what?" Johnny asks, excited.

"That's where it ends," Pony says, suppressing a grin.

"Wow," Johnny says. "You sure used a lot of big words to say some pretty common things, Two-Bit. This girl must be real special."

"It's not from me. It's from Mr. Harolson. I had to make it sound authentic, so I used a thesaurus."

"So who is Isabel?" Ponyboy asks.

"That's Ms. Winters's first name."

"You're trying to set up the two new English teachers! You think that's gonna work?" Pony asks.

"Who knows. They'll get a kick out of it at least." Two-Bit shrugs, but Johnny can tell he's proud of his scheming. "Anyway, it worked for Ms. Porter and Mr. Johnson."

"Wait," Johnny interrupts, "that was _you_?"

"My handiwork," Two-Bit preens. Then he frowns. "Shoot, that Soc is headed over here again. Do you want me to make him leave, Johnny? Jesus, doesn't he know the rules?"

Johnny turns around and sees Randy headed towards their table. Randy catches his glance and waves. Johnny inwardly groans. "Nah," he says to Two-Bit. "Don't bother."

"Hey Johnny," Randy greets as he sits down. "Ponyboy, Two-Bit." Randy nods at each of them as he says their name.

Johnny stares at the suddenly interesting bag of trail mix in front of him. It's hard to look Randy in the face after what happened the other day. Even most of his closest friends haven't witnessed his dad beating him. They see the aftereffects plenty, but besides Randy, only Ponyboy's ever seen his folks go off on him.

Two-Bit scowls.

"Hey Randy," Ponyboy reluctantly returns.

"I just wanted to let you know I found a new location for our tutoring session today, since the library's taken up," Randy says to Johnny.

"Oh yeah?" Johnny mumbles.

"Yup. I asked around about the classrooms, but rules are rules, according to our wonderful principal, so they're off-limits. But there's no game tonight, and as long as the skies are clear, I figure we could use the bleachers. So I'll see you at the football stadium at three, okay?"

"Sure," says Johnny.

Randy gives Johnny's arm an affectionate squeeze before he gets up to go. Ponyboy's mouth drops as he watches the exchange, and Two-Bit casually pulls out his most prize possession, his switchblade. Randy sees it in Two-Bit's hand and shakes his head as he turns away.

"Are you guys friends or something?" Two-Bit sounds offended. He grumpily snatches back his matchmaking letter from the other side of the table where it lays in front of Ponyboy.

"We ain't friends." Johnny's tone sulky and defensive.

"Sure looked like it," Two-Bit grumbles.

"I said we ain't," Johnny repeats, sternly.

"He's a Soc," Two-Bit says. "He's not like us. You know better than any of us what they think of greasers, what they do to greasers-"

"Two-Bit, get off Johnny's back," Pony says. "Johnny can be friends with whoever he wants."

"We ain't friends!" Johnny insists.

But all Two-Bit says is, "Boys like us, we gotta stick together. And that means we don't go kissing ass to rich jerks like that. That means we stay _loyal_." He gets up and leaves the table, abandoning his unfinished lunch.

"Don't worry about it, Johnny," Ponyboy's voice is soft and comforting.

But Johnny is too upset to eat.


	19. Chapter 19

It's a windy day, and the view is nice from the highest bleacher. Johnny likes being perched high like this: he's used to being the shortest boy in the crowd, used to never seeing the tops of people's heads and having difficulty seeing the screen at the movies. But here, except for Randy, he is alone as far as his eyes can see. It's peaceful, without other people, surveying the grounds. The trees in the distance are a mix of yellow and orange and red, but the football field is somehow still a perfect green turf. Johnny can smell the strong scent of the woods in late autumn even from the school grounds. Randy looks like he belongs in a Boy Scout pamphlet. He's wearing a plaid shirt, a high-end windbreaker, and a woolen scarf that's blowing photogenically behind his neck. The autumn foliage behind him looks like a movie set designed to match his outfit. He doesn't realize he's staring at him until Randy gives him a knowing smirk.

Randy and Johnny haven't started studying yet. They're relaxed in companionable silence, staring out at a world that, for once, looks like it has something to offer. It always felt strange to Johnny that fall is the time of year that things die. To Johnny, he's always felt his year starts anew in September. That's when school starts, when he has a good excuse to avoid his home life as much as possible.

Johnny pulls his jean jacket more tightly around his waist, but it doesn't do much to combat the cold. He can feel the frozen chill of the bleachers straight through his jeans. The hard metal of the bench pressing into his switchblade in his back pocket is becoming increasingly uncomfortable, so he pulls it out to move it to his front pocket. From the corner of his eye, he catches Randy suppress a surprised gasp.

"You shouldn't carry that," Randy says, uncomfortable. "I mean, not even just for moral reasons. One that long, I actually think it's illegal." And the beauty of the afternoon is gone.

"It's for protection," Johnny answers bitterly. "I gotta defend myself in case somebody tries to jump me." _In case you and your buddies try to jump me, _he thinks.

"Yeah, but you could really hurt someone with that," Randy says, hesitantly.

"That's kinda the point."

"You could kill someone with that," Randy clarifies.

"Maybe some people deserve to die."

Randy stares at him until Johnny looks away. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," Randy says. For several seconds, the only sound between them is the rustle of the wind against tree branches.

"I didn't get a chance to talk to your teachers today. How'd you do on your Civil War unit test?"

Johnny shrugs. "Fine."

"What did you get?"

"I said I did fine."

Randy bites his lip. "I know we studied for a long time, but sometimes the test is harder than you think. It's okay if you didn't do that great."

"She failed me."

"It's okay," Randy says softly. "Next time-"

"She said cheaters get zeros in her class, and that if I cheated again she'd suspend me."

"Did you cheat?"

Johnny scowls at Randy, grabs his schoolbag, and turns to leave. He starts pounding down the bleachers. Johnny is sick of people assuming the worst of him. And Randy should know him better by now.

"Johnny!" Randy calls after him. He runs so fast that he steps in front of him and blocks him. He's one bleacher step below, and for the first time, the two of them stand at the same height.

"I'm sorry," Randy says. "I shouldn't have asked that. I know you worked really hard. You deserve to be given the benefit of the doubt."

Johnny shrugs. "She said nobody goes from getting a 26 percent to an 87."

"Did you tell her you've been studying with me?"

Johnny shakes his head no.

"Why didn't you stick up for yourself? Why didn't you explain that you've been taking lessons?"

Johnny shrugs again.

Randy pats down his scarf with more force than is necessary. "You frustrate the hell out of me, do you know that?"

"I've got a solution," Johnny says. "You could get out of my life. Problem solved."

"Johnny." Randy steps up so that he's on the same level as Johnny. He's back to towering over him. And he's standing too close.

"Why won't you take a hint?" Johnny steps backward, away from Randy. He misses the bleacher behind him and tumbles down, twisting his ankle and hitting his head on the metal bench.

"Johnny!" Randy kneels down to help him up; Johnny shoves at his chest. But Randy is faster and frustrated. With one hand, Randy grabs both of Johnny's wrists mid-push. Johnny makes a small pained noise: Randy's holding on too tightly, his rough fingers pushing into Johnny's veins, cutting off his circulation. He had originally intended to help him up, but now Randy is on top of him, holding down Johnny's hands so he can't escape.

There's a primal part of Johnny that is terrified of Randy. Perhaps because of what happened that night, or perhaps that's just how Johnny is: always certain danger is just around the corner. But Johnny tries to take control of his instincts as he struggles under Randy. He tells himself to calm down. Deep inside himself, he knows Randy won't hurt him. In fact, he's damn sure hurting him is the last thing on Randy's mind. Johnny quits fighting and relaxes beneath him.

"You frustrate the hell out of me," Randy repeats. He's whispering this time. He's straddling Johnny, who's still awkwardly lying twisted on the footrest level of the bleachers, hidden from view under the benches above and below him. Johnny can feel his heart throbbing in his head. His ankle hurts, he thinks he maybe sprained it, and he's uncomfortable, pinned there beneath Randy, his whole body pressed down on the freezing cold bleachers.

But it feels good, too.

It shouldn't feel good. That's wrong. He knows it's wrong.

"I'm going to kiss you," Randy announces. He pauses and checks Johnny's face for dissent.

Johnny wants it. He wants it badly. But he doesn't want to want it.

Randy must not see any dissent, because he closes the space between them. His lips are cold against Johnny's, cold but gentle. Johnny doesn't kiss back. He lies there passively and lets Randy do what he wants. Whatever happens is not really his fault if he doesn't participate, he tries to tell himself. Randy can make all the decisions. Randy can use him, and then Johnny's not responsible.

Randy breaks from the kiss. He pulls back and studies Johnny, a quizzical look on his face. He leans in again and kisses him a second time. Johnny stays as still and unresponsive as possible. Randy stops the kissing abruptly. He's still sitting on top of Johnny, but he's leaning back on his heels. He looks hurt.

"What's wrong? Don't you want it?" Randy asks, his breath hitched. "I can feel that you want it."

Johnny's face burns. He knows _exactly_ what Randy means by that.

"Would you please just talk to me?" Randy scoots back and off of him, giving Johnny the opportunity to sit up. Johnny does sit up, but he still doesn't speak. "Please don't shut me out, Johnny," Randy whispers. "Come on. What's the matter?"

Johnny wraps his arms around his knees. "It's wrong," Johnny finally answers. "We both know it's wrong. Everybody says it's wrong."

"I like you. I want you. I don't care what everybody says," Randy declares defiantly.

"Well I do."

"You can't keep living for other people."

Johnny doesn't know what to say to that, so he keeps staring ahead.

"I can wait," Randy says. "I'll wait until you're ready."

"I think I should go," Johnny says. "And I, uh, I, um...I don't think we should keep up with these lessons." He touches his ankle and hisses. It's throbbing.

"I got you a present."

"Non sequitur," Johnny says. That's a vocab word Randy taught him last week.

"Appropriate use of the word," Randy answers. "Let me go get my bag. It's in there." Randy turns around and runs back up to the top bleacher. Johnny pulls himself up off the footrest and onto the nearest bench. He kicks his foot up on the bleacher below him, pulls up his pant leg, and examines his ankle. It's red and swollen.

Randy's back in seconds. He's not even out of breath. "You better ice that as soon as you get home," Randy says as he reaches into his schoolbag and pulls out a book. He hands it over to Johnny and gives him a nervous look.

It's a thin, children's picture book with a hard, lime green cover. Judging by the silly cover illustration of a small child reaching for an apple from a tree, Johnny guesses it is written at a kindergardener's reading level.

"Real hilarious," Johnny snaps. He shoves the book at Randy's chest. "Thanks a lot. I get the message."

"What's the-"

"I know I'm a slow reader but I'm not a damn illiterate and this ain't funny. You're just a...you're a..." but what exactly Randy is, Johnny is too flustered to express at the moment. "Fuck you," he settles for.

"That's not what I meant! Not at all! It's not a joke, okay? It's a good book. And I want you to have it. I bought it for you. Johnny, trust me. Please?" He's waving it in Johnny's face now, insistently.

"Anybody ever tell you how annoying and pushy you are?" Johnny asks as he snatches the book back.

"Yes," Randy answers, without shame. "Read it. Not now, later. When you're alone."

#

Somehow, despite their hormones and their problems, they spend the rest of the lesson actually studying on the top bleacher like they'd planned to. They're reviewing the water cycle. Considering the troubles of the beginning of the lesson, they're actually doing quite well. And then the football team comes outside to practice.

They have matching jackets with hand-stitched varsity patches, and as Johnny watches them gather on the field, he realizes they look like they belong in a way he never has. With their padding and their helmets, they look like Greek gods or superheroes. Shoot, they are heroes, to the school.

Bob is the quarterback.

They team is running laps, and it doesn't take long until somebody spots the two boys studying on the top bench. Of course, all the jocks immediately recognize Randy. One points, and mutters something to a teammate, and then everybody momentarily stops jogging to stare at them.

"Well, that's just great," Randy says, wearing a sarcastic smile.

"Hey, Randy!" another jock, unknown to Johnny, shouts, "What'd you quit the team for? So you could waste your time hanging out with greasers?"

"That's his charity case," Bob explains to the team. He says it loud enough that his voice carries throughout the stadium. "He's tutoring that kid, although Lord knows why. All that grease in his hair blocks knowledge from getting into the brain. That's why greasers are all so dumb."

The entire team laughs. Then they keep running.

"Just ignore them," Randy mutters.

"Easier said than done," Johnny mutters. He pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and lights up. "So you quit the football team," he begins conversationally. He wants to divert attention away from his recent humiliation.

"I only played safety anyway," Randy answers. "And besides, I'm already on polo, track, golf, and tennis teams. Not to mention I practice piano four days a week and tutor you six hours a week, plus I have to keep straight As and I'm taking the highest level courses our school offers in every subject. Something had to give."

"Shoot, Randy," Johnny blows out a puff of smoke, "You don't have to justify it to me. I've never even played a sport for school."

"I'm sorry." Randy unravels his scarf, which has twisted around his neck. "It's just my dad gave me a really hard time about it. You know, I got that speech about how quitters never win and winners never quit, and I was choosing to be a quitter. And how I had to man-up, because if not, one day he was going to cut me off. And of course I won't be able to make it on my own without his financial resources and business connections. I must've heard that speech a thousand times from him."

"Your dad is an asshole."

"Well, looks like we finally have something in common." Randy gives Johnny a sad smile.

"Greaser!" some jock shouts as they circle around again, passing the stands on their second lap.

"Hey hood, why don't you come down here and join us?" another one lays in. "Let's see how tough you are on the field!"

Johnny flicks the ash off his cigarette. He does his best to ignore the taunts.

"Next time, we're studying at my house," Randy says. "Okay?" He sounds nervous.

They both know it's a weighty invitation. It's a line that shouldn't be crossed.

Johnny nods. "Let's do that."


	20. Chapter 20

When Johnny returns to the Curtis house after throwing around a football with the boys, he pounds up the stairs to Ponyboy and Sodapop's room, where Pony is finishing his homework.

"Hey, Pony," Johnny shouts as he enters. "If you finish by six, Darry says we can to the mov-"

Ponyboy is sitting cross-legged on the floor. The kid's book that Randy gave Johnny is opened on Ponyboy's lap.

"What the hell are you doing with my stuff?" Johnny's voice is a quiet threat. "Give it back!"

But Johnny's anger ebbs when he sees Ponyboy's tear-streaked face. Johnny kneels down so he's at Ponyboy's level on the floor. "Sorry I yelled at you," he says, putting an arm around Ponyboy's shoulder.

"My pen ran out of ink," Ponyboy explains. "I was too lazy to go downstairs and I thought you might have a spare, so I checked your bag."

"Ponyboy," Johnny asks reluctantly, "are you okay?"

"It's just this book..."

Ponyboy's sensitive. Too sensitive. Even more sensitive than Johnny. He spends his hours sketching portraits and quoting poetry and crying at the sad part of movies. Even with his folks dead, that boy has still managed not to toughen up. It's never bothered Johnny, though. Not in the way it worries Darry and Soda, or irritates Steve and Dally, or makes Two-Bit resort to inappropriate jokes. But if a children's book is setting Pony off, maybe Johnny _should_ worry.

"It's only a little kid's book," says Johnny, but not meanly.

"It's so sad," Pony says. "I really hate it. I wish I'd never read it. I feel so sorry for the tree."

Ponyboy says this last bit with such sincerity that Johnny tries very hard to keep the ridicule out of his voice when he clarifies, "You feel sorry for...a tree?"

Pony nods. "Didn't you?"

"I haven't read it yet."

"He really likes you, you know."

"Who?" Johnny swallows.

Ponyboy gives him a superior look, one eyebrow raised. He wipes the tears from his cheeks. "You know who. Randy. He cares about you. That's why he got you this book."

"No he didn't."

"Johnny, he wrote you a letter on the flyleaf."

Johnny rubs the front of his jeans. There's nothing he can say, caught in a direct lie like that. He jumps up in surprise when Ponyboy's hand lands on his wrist.

"I'm glad you guys are friends," Ponyboy says.

"You and me are friends," Johnny argues. "Me and that boy, we ain't friends. He's a Soc. We ain't friends."

"Yes you are," Pony insists. "I could tell the minute he came by with your test the other week. He was so happy and excited for you. I knew you were going to be friends. And if he got you this book, he knows you. And if he knows you like that, you're friends. Good friends." Despite his stated support, judging by his tone, Ponyboy doesn't sound too happy about that.

"He's a Soc," Johnny protests.

But Ponyboy just shrugs his shoulders. "I guess that doesn't matter sometimes. Some people make sense together. You two do."

"You're not mad?" Johnny asks. He feels like a traitor. Two-Bit thinks he is a traitor. Steve would think he is a traitor. Dally would think he is a traitor. Maybe even Darry would think he is a traitor.

"No. I'm not mad, exactly."

Johnny tenses.

Ponyboy pulls at a loose thread on his pant leg, not quite looking at him. "It's just that you've been spending a lot of time with him. Do you...do you like him better than me?"

Johnny lets out a sigh of relief. He could laugh. Here he was, worried about being judged as a traitor, and it's only that Ponyboy has gotten jealous.

"Naw, Pony." Johnny grins. "You'll always be my best friend. You know that. And truth is, I miss you." He realizes he does the moment he says it. He's spent so much time avoiding Ponyboy because he was embarrassed by their conversation that they haven't really got a chance to hang out alone together in weeks.

"I've been so busy catching up on my schoolwork that I haven't thought about much else," Johnny lies. "But I'll make sure to visit more often."

"You'd better," Pony says. "Things have gotten real bad without you around. Darry's driving me up a wall and Soda isn't always around to stop him. I need you here, Johnny. I swear to God I do."

#

When Johnny is home alone in his bedroom, he reads the book.

On the flyleaf, in Randy's familiar, careful script, is written:

_Dear Johnny,_

_Don't give up too much of yourself, okay?_

_-Randy_

And Johnny reads about the tree, offering her fruit, offering her branches, offering everything, until she is left with nothing but a stump. And the boy, who takes and takes and takes until he is a tired old man, but never once says thank you. And who, ultimately, is never once satisfied with what he has taken.

Johnny doesn't know the point of the story. He doesn't know if it's about the nobility of love and sacrifice, regardless of whether that love is returned. He doesn't know if it is about how love and sacrifice can be abused by selfish, uncaring people. He doesn't understand the point, but he understands Randy's loud and clear.

#

The next day at school, in the hallway, Randy pulls away from his friends and approaches Johnny as he is headed to English class.

"Did you read it?"

Johnny nods.

"What do you think?"

Johnny looks behind him and sees a group of senior Socs staring at the two of them. He turns back to Randy. "I think the tree ain't happy."

"See you after school," Randy says.


	21. Chapter 21

Warning: This chapter contains (relatively) explicit material. Please do not read if you do not like.

Author's Notes: In this chapter, the essay prompt was taken from Spark Notes.

#

#

#

There are exotic animal heads staring out at Johnny judgmentally from the walls of the Adderson's spacious living room. It is decorated to look like a hunting lodge, from the tribal rug on the hardwood floor, to the shotgun above the fireplace, to the overstuffed leather chairs. Johnny has never been in a house this big. Scrap that. Estate. A place so colossal and obnoxious can't be called a home. It has _columns_ outside.

"Wow," Johnny says, staring up at the face of a taxidermy zebra, its glossy, beady eyes boring into him. "I've never seen so many dead animals in one place."

Randy chuckles. "Very elegantly put. I'm sure my mother would love to hear your compliments on her decorating."

"Where'd they come from?"

"Mostly Africa, but South America, too. My paternal grandfather was a big game hunter. These are his kills."

"They're kind of terrifying," Johnny says.

"Imagine growing up here," Randy comments dryly. "I used to have to listen to him brag about how he went on safari with Ernest Hemingway."

"You mean the guy who wrote the book I'm here to write a report about?" Johnny asks dubiously.

"I'm not entirely certain my grandpop's stories are true. He was kind of a jerk. You know, the type of guy who liked to name drop to feel more important," Randy says. "Come on, let's go upstairs to my room."

#

Even though Randy has a desk, a chair that completes the desk, and an easy chair, they're sitting on Randy's bed, _A Farewell To Arms_ and a thick, hardbound Hemingway criticism textbook sloped down in the center, wrinkling a large pile of blankets. Johnny makes sure they're on opposite sides of the bed. He has a pencil and notebook in hand.

"So," Randy's looks down at the prompt to he reads. "Unlike many war stories, _A Farewell To Arms_ does not glorify the experience of combat or offer readers portraits of heroes as they are traditionally conceived. What is the novel's attitude toward war?"

"This is supposed to be six pages and that's a huge question. I have no idea how to even begin," Johnny whines.

"You can start by writing down ideas as to what and why you think the novel's stance is," Randy suggests. "Then, we'll figure filter out the weak ideas until we're left with the best, and then search the novel for evidence to support your argument. After that it's only a matter of writing the thing."

"It's times like these I wish I had dropped out." Johnny's teeth are chattering. It's cold in Randy's house. He can't imagine a heating system large enough to support it.

"Do you need a sweater?" Randy asks.

Johnny shakes his head no.

"I'll get you a sweater."

"I said I didn't need-"

But Randy's already heading to his dresser. He starts sorting through his drawers, pulling out madras shirts and sweater vests and turtlenecks.

"These are all too small on me," he says as he dumps a large pile onto the bed.

Johnny raises his eyebrows, not sure at what Randy's trying to get at.

"Here," says Randy, "try this one on." He tosses him an argyle sweater. It's green, with thin cream and brown lines in the pattern.

Johnny stands up and reluctantly pulls it over his head.

"You look good," says Randy. "It brings out your eyes. Not that you need anything to bring them out."

Johnny catches a glimpse of himself in Randy's enormous mirror above his dresser. "I look like a damn pansy."

"A handsome pansy. A tuff pansy." Randy laughs. Johnny rolls his eyes.

Whatever Randy says, Johnny knows it doesn't look right on him. Not against his tan skin, or with his greased up hair and the split lip he got last night. He feels as uncomfortable wearing as this he does sitting in Randy's bed, beneath a shelf full of athletic trophies and framed academic achievement awards. He reluctantly touches the sides of the sweater. It's the softest thing he's ever worn.

"It's cashmere," Randy adds in an offhand way. "I want you to have it." Randy gestures with his head over to the pile. "And the rest."

Johnny narrows his eyes. "I ain't your charity case."

"It's not for charity," Randy clarifies. "They're too small on me now, and they're just going to sit here because I can't get rid of anything. So you'd be doing me a favor, taking them off my hands. Plus, I get to look at you in them. That's a favor, too. I like seeing you in my clothes."

Johnny scowls at Randy, but his heart jumps, no matter what he's trying to force his face to convey.

"I can't accept these," Johnny says.

"Come on. Just take them."

The sweater does feel nice, and while Johnny would never wear something this preppy in public, if he can layer a few of those sweaters under his jeans jacket, he won't risk freezing to death in the lot this winter, and he won't have to burden Darry half as often, showing up on his doorstep at two in the morning when he can't handle the cold any longer.

"I'll take them," Johnny agrees. "But only 'cause they'll look good in court."

"In court!" Randy exclaims. His words come rushed, and he hurries over to Johnny's side. "Are you in trouble? Why didn't you say anything? My dad doesn't normally work defense, but maybe he could represent you pro bono if I convinced him. Or maybe he knows an expert who will. What happ-"

"Calm down," Johnny interrupts. "I ain't in any trouble. I was thinking I'd take these just in case. Dal says the judge will let you off easy if you're dressed nice and act respectable."

"Already preparing for your life of crime, huh? Just like a greaser," Randy pulls his hand through Johnny's hair, affectionately pushing his bangs out of his eyes. He's speaking as if Johnny acting like a greaser is somehow cute. While Johnny doesn't appreciate the sentiment, he leans into the touch.

"You really oil it up, don't you?" Randy asks. "Man, I'm gonna have to wash this hand for an hour," he jokes.

"At least I'm not pretending I'm a Beatle," Johnny mutters defensively. He pulls away from Randy.

Randy steps toward him. "I happen to find beetles to be beautiful insects."

"You know what I mean, Randy. You look like every other stupid Soc who's hopping on the latest trend."

"You don't think that," Randy says. Johnny doesn't, actually. He thinks Randy's among the most handsome men he's ever met.

Randy's hand is on his chin. He leans toward him. Johnny jerks away, but Randy's lips touch his forehead. And then his temple. Gently. Like a lover. No, not like.

Randy kisses him again, this time on the neck. His hand moves to Johnny's hip. In the back of Johnny's mind, he remembers he should hate him, he remembers he should be repelled by his touch, but he still doesn't move away. "I want you," Randy mumbles against Johnny's mouth, half-kissing him as he speaks.

Johnny opens his mouth and gives in. There's teeth against teeth. Johnny's arms are somehow wrapped around Randy's neck, pulling him in, allowing himself to be pulled. His heart is beating rampant with desire and fear.

"I want you," Randy repeats. He pushes Johnny so he's backed up against the dresser. His tongue is in his mouth, one hand grips Johnny's neck so roughly it almost chokes him, the other presses into his hip, and then reaches for his fly. Johnny can feel Randy pressed against his body in a way that is entirely inappropriate. There is no question whether or not Randy can feel him back.

It is strangely incongruous, but Johnny suddenly remembers the words of kindly old pastor's sermon one time at church. The words that made Johnny go back to church again and again, hoping he could find a deeper meaning to it all. The pastor had spoken about submitting and surrendering to a higher power. Now Johnny knows exactly what he found appealing in that message. He wants to trust implicitly and entirely, to forgo fear, to give control over to somebody else for once. He wants, for the first time in his life, to not look over his shoulder anticipating disaster, but let himself experience pleasure and freedom without abandon. Randy kisses him so passionately he accidentally bites his lip; he pulls down Johnny's jeans to his knees in one rough tug. Johnny's not afraid of Randy. He likes it.

But he is afraid of deeper things. He's afraid of going to hell. He's afraid of letting down his friends. He's afraid of allowing himself to be vulnerable. He's afraid of letting go. He's afraid of getting caught. The fear wins.

"No," he says softly, putting his hands on Randy's arms as if to push him away. "Stop."

Randy gasps in frustration and lets go of him. They stare at each other. Johnny pulls up his jeans and zips his fly, his eyes trained to the carpet.

"Randy!" a woman calls from downstairs. "Supper time!"

TBC


	22. Chapter 22

Randy's mom is tall and blonde and perfect. She's wearing a pink fitted shift dress, conservative enough for a mother because it reaches her calves, but it grazes her body in just the right places. Two-Bit would be all over her. Her strand of pearls reach her collarbone becomingly, and the only other jewelry she's wearing is a thin silver watch, and her engagement ring and wedding band. Her hair is styled like Jackie Kennedy's. She looks rich, but is dressed understated, like she's so rich she doesn't need to make it obvious. He's glad he's standing behind Randy, so she can't get a good look at him.

Johnny is immediately intimidated, because in that house, with perfect blonde people, it's all the more apparent that he's trash. And his thoughts shift back to what he and Randy were doing only seconds before, and he _really_ feels like trash. She's going to hate him. She's going to be able to tell.

"Randy," Mrs. Adderson holds out her arms. She kisses Randy on the cheek warmly.

"Mom," Randy protests, but Johnny can tell Randy is putting on a show. He doesn't mind at all.

"Who is your friend?" Mrs. Adderson asks.

"This is Johnny. Can we set an extra plate for dinner?"

"No, that's really okay. I gotta get going," Johnny says, at the same time Mrs. Adderson says, "That would be no trouble at all."

Johnny blushes. "Sorry I interrupted."

"Don't worry. And you're staying for dinner, my orders." She says it sweetly, like it's not an order at all. "Nice to meet you, Johnny."

Mrs. Adderson puts her hands on Johnny's shoulders and kisses him on the cheek, just like she kissed Randy. She smells nice, and looks nice, Johnny thinks as her lips touch his face. Just like a mom should. Even though they have different color hair, and wear different style clothes, and have different body types, there is something about her that reminds him of Mrs. Curtis. There is a kindness to her eyes. A lump forms in Johnny's throat. He wishes he could pull Randy's mom into a hug, but he knows that is inappropriate. And he has the sudden urge to run to the Curtis house and see Mrs. Curtis one last time, to say goodbye. To say thank you. He wants to run to his own home and find his mother dressed in daywear and ready to go out and talk about how proud she is of his report card.

"You look very pretty," Johnny says.

"Well, aren't you sweet?" Mrs. Adderson answers, as if she is used to being flattered by Randy's friends. But Johnny had meant it. He had meant his words to mean even more than the words, not less. And flattery always lessens a compliment.

#

Randy and Johnny take seats across from each other at the table; his parents across from each other on either long end. Mr. Adderson is wearing a gray flannel suit with a navy tie. His collar is starched, and the line at the center of each trouser pant is crisply pressed. He frowns when Johnny takes a seat.

"So, Randall, who have you invited over for dinner without our expressed permission?" Mr. Adderson asks tersely.

Randy crosses his arms. "Mom said it was okay."

"Is your mother the head of the house?"

"I thought it would be all right, dear."

"What's your name, boy?" Mr. Adderson asks Johnny, ignoring his wife and son.

"Johnny."

"John, or Jonathan?" Mr. Adderson asks sharply.

He's always been called Johnny, but he has a feeling that won't go over well in this house. "Oh, um. My name is actually John."

"That's a shame. Jonathan is stronger name. Randall here has been going by Randy since he was an infant, and I've told him a hundred times if I've told him once that no one will take a 'Randy' seriously. It's a sissy's name, but he just won't listen, now will he?"

"Jim, please not tonight," Mrs. Adderson says. "We have company."

"And what kind of 'company' are you bringing to this house, Randall? Is that the new style these days? Dungarees at the dinner table?"

Johnny looks down at his faded, ripped jeans and bites his lip. "Sorry," Johnny mutters. "I came right from school."

Randy puts his face in his hand and rubs at the afternoon stubble above his lip. Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say.

"You wore working pants to _school_? Those pants belong in the mines or on the rodeo. Not in a respectable public institution. And what smells like cigarettes?"

"Johnny, as our guest, why don't you say grace?" Mrs. Adderson interrupts. Her voice is extra gentle, like she's trying to make up for the meanness of her husband.

"Um... I... Sure."

Johnny's family doesn't pray over family dinners. Shoot, they don't even have family dinners. The only thing he knows about prayer is what he gleaned from the brief period of time he attended church. He looks quickly to Randy for guidance, but Randy's head is already bowed, his fingers interlaced. Johnny copies the gesture, and then remembers to move his elbows off the table.

"Um...dear God, and uh Jesus, too. Yeah. Thanks for the food and company and stuff. And thanks for dying for us so that we could, we could, oh shit..." Johnny fumbles, trying to remember what he had been taught about why Jesus died for the world. He can't remember. "And sorry God, for saying shit. Amen."

Johnny peeks open his eyes. Mr. Adderson's face has turned a faint red, his brows furrowed in anger. He stares at Johnny like he's plotting his death, but at least he doesn't say anything.

"That was very sweet," Mrs. Adderson says. Her eyes quickly shift around the table from her husband's angry face, to Randy's embarrassed one. Finally, they settle on Johnny's frightened one. She gives him a sympathetic smile.

The food is already on the table. All the glassware is made from a matching translucent neon green, patterned with classical-looking motifs. Inside the dishes are potatoes, a whole honey-baked ham hock, green beans, and hand-kneaded bread with what looks to be hand-whipped butter. Mr. Adderson takes his helping first, filling every open space of the plate with overlarge servings. He takes his time, carefully selecting the best cut of the meat before he bites into it. Then Mrs. Adderson and Randy take their servings. Johnny follows suit. His desire to leave the table as quickly as possible outweighs his hunger, so he takes a small helping. But when Johnny sees Mrs. Adderson staring at his plate with a worried look, he adds on a little extra. She smiles at him encouragingly.

"So John," Mr. Adderson says between bites, "My Randall here got an eight-pointer last weekend out at Turkey Mountain. First buck of the season among our people. How have you fared so far?"

Johnny shifts his eyes over to Randy, who checks to make sure his father is not watching, and then gestures shooting a gun. "Oh!" Johnny says in understanding. "I don't hunt."

"Too bad. Too bad. Hunting is essential to a man's experience," Mr. Adderson grumbles. "I've always said boys don't become men until they've killed the animal they're eating. And while we're on the subject of boys becoming men, what college are you interested in attending next fall?" Johnny realizes what a perfect parody of his father's sort Randy had demonstrated weeks ago in the library.

"Dad-" Randy interrupts. But his father gives him a look and he shuts his mouth.

"I ain't going to college," Johnny mumbles.

"Don't say ain't in this house. That's white trash talk."

"_Jim_!" Mrs. Adderson hisses.

"The boy should be corrected when he speaks incorrectly, Darlene." Mr. Adderson gives his wife a stern look, and then the look is back on Johnny. "So how did you meet my boy? I'm quite familiar with all of his _close_ friends," Johnny notes the way he says close, like Johnny is excluded from that, "and Randall has never mentioned you."

Johnny drops his fork back on his napkin and pushes his plate aside. He crosses his arms and scowls at Mr. Adderson. "We _ain't_ friends. Randy's my tutor. Remember, he's tutoring under _your_ orders so he can check off the little box labeled public service on his college application? Your son isn't being influenced a juvenile deliquent, if that's what you're worried about."

"Boy, don't you speak like that to me in my own home! I don't know what's acceptable in _your_ house, no doubt you have permissive, absentee parents, but if you think for a second I tolerate that behavior in _my_ house, a house I've built with my own, hard-earned money, and you think you can sit at our table dressed in dungarees and lord knows _what_ in your hair like that Elvis monstrosity, disrespecting _my_ wife and _my_ family with your slovenliness and foul language, then you've got another thing coming. Now apologize."

"Dad!" says Randy.

"Randall Matthew Adderson, do not interrupt."

"Look, I'm sorry," Johnny says.

"You don't need to apologize to him," Randy says fiercely. "He should apologize to you!"

"Randall-"

"Guess what, Dad? Johnny's lying. He _is_ my friend. Yeah. My friend. And guess what else? We're not just friends. I-"

"I think I should leave," Johnny says.

"That's the first intelligent thing you've said all evening," Mr. Adderson says.

Johnny pushes back his chair and stands up. For once, he remembers his manners, and pushes the chair back in. He turns to Mrs. Adderson. She has tears in her eyes, but she's smiling this fake smile as if she thinks no can see them.

"Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Adderson," Johnny says. "You have a beautiful home."

"You're welcome, sweetheart," Mrs. Adderson answers.

TBC


	23. Chapter 23

Johnny's started walking home. He's not familiar with this side of town, so he's not even sure if he is headed in the right direction. He guesses it's the right direction, so long as it's away from the Adderson household.

Johnny's making a random right at a stop sign, when he hears the sounds of running footsteps behind him.

"Wait up!" Randy shouts. Johnny keeps walking. But with Randy's long stride and cross-country training, it doesn't take long for him to catch up. Johnny stops in his tracks, knowing he's not going to be able to avoid him. Randy is holding a brown paper grocery bag, which he hands over to Johnny. Johnny reluctantly takes it. He peaks inside. There's a box of tupperware with the remainder of his meal inside, and underneath the food is the pile of Randy's reject clothes.

"My mom packed you the leftovers," Randy says.

"How do I get home from here?" Johnny asks.

"I can drive you."

"I can walk."

"Your ankle's not completely better yet. I saw you limping."

Johnny shrugs. "I'll live."

"I'm sorry about what happened in there."

"You shouldn't talk back to your dad like that."

Randy stares at him, like he's just said something crazy. "He was being rude to you."

"I get it. I mean, look at me."

Randy does look at him. But not with judgment. He looks at him with compassion, and Johnny has to turn away.

"Johnny, trust me, it's not you. The clothes and the hair don't help, but you could be the valedictorian and my dad would still make a comment about the cut of your tie or ask where your parents went to school or whatever. No one impresses him. Especially not me."

Johnny doesn't understand it. Not one bit. If he could win sports competitions and spelling bees and awards of academic achievement, he's sure his parents would love him. Johnny doesn't deserve to be loved because he's a bum, but Randy is successful. That all of his achievements aren't enough makes no sense.

"Come on, Randy," Johnny says. "Don't say that. You're like, the school hero or something. They've gotta be proud."

"My mom is proud. But it's like, no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, nothing will be good enough for my dad. You know, I'm on the polo team-"

"We have a polo team?"

"No, we don't. But my family's country club does. Anyway, I'm on the polo team there, and after the last game of an undefeated season, the only thing my dad had to say about it was that I missed a goal."

"Screw your dad. That's impressive. I could never do nothing like that."

"Yes, you could. You could."

"You don't have to be nice. We both know I'm dumb, and I ain't exactly athletic."

"If you had a mom who checked your homework, made sure you got to school on time, packed you a lunch every day and left you encouraging notes in it, kissed every bruise better...you'd have _never_ fallen behind in school in the first place. You'd make honor roll like me.

"If you had a dad who enrolled you in sports, practiced with you at home, hired personal trainers, told you not to smoke, invited the coach over for dinner...you'd make whatever team you went for, too.

"My dad is right. I'm not exceptional. Considering the advantages I've been given, I'm average. But the thing is, I'm okay with that. He's the one who's not. And I'm sick of trying to impress him.

"You know, I think that's why so many social club kids hate greasers. We have all these merits and marks of achievement. But we know they're lies. We know deep down, what separates us and the greasers is money. That's why we have to constantly prove our superiority by not caring, not feeling. That's why we fight you. To prove we're men. It's all bullshit and I'm done with it."

Randy kicks up dirt. "I'm doing with taking my dad's comments, too. I swear I'm done with it. I've started talking back, and pretty soon I'm gonna do more than talk if he doesn't let up."

"Don't." Johnny sounds panicked. Shoot. He _is_ panicked. He knows how bad it can get when you talk back to your folks. He doesn't want that for Randy. "Don't do that."

"Why not?" Randy asks. He's angry. Angry at his dad, certainly. Angry at the world. Maybe even angry at Johnny for rejecting him.

Johnny doesn't know what to say. He can't find the words, because if he said exactly what is on his mind, it would sound wrong, even though he knows he's right. _Your folks are right no matter what. They are allowed to discipline you however they want. It's wrong to argue with them. You owe them your life, because they made you and they provide for you. It is your job to make them happy, and if you don't, you deserve what you get. They hurt you because they want what's best for you. _

These are the things he tells himself when his folks lay in on him. And helps. It does. He doesn't know when he came up with those laws, those truths; it's like he's always known them. And if believes in them, he can accept whatever his folks do. But if he said that out loud, Randy would think he was crazy.

Johnny needs to help Randy understand, though, so Randy doesn't get himself into trouble. "Randy, listen to me," Johnny says, struggling with his wording. "Don't fight back. It only escalates if you do. You just gotta, I don't know, let him treat you how he wants to treat you. Don't question it." That's good, Johnny thinks. That's a safe way to put it.

"Wow." Randy shakes his head. "And I thought I was fucked up. Someone mistreats and your answer is 'submit'? Johnny, that is not healthy."

Johnny's face goes red. "Neither is raging against a world you can't change! You ain't only like this with your dad, but with everything."

"What do you mean?"

"How many times do I gotta hear you talk about Civil Rights or how the war is wrong? It's not like anybody in power cares enough to change those things. You should just let things be, even if they are shitty. If you fight back, life gets shittier. Keep your head down, and yeah, submit, if you want to call it that."

"I can't imagine what in your life happened to make you this apathetic. You shouldn't just lie down when things get tough, Johnny." Randy sounds sorry for him. Patronizingly sorry for him.

Johnny suddenly hates him. Randy, with his stupid, naive ideals. Randy, with all this righteous fight in him, criticizing Johnny for giving up. He doesn't have a right to criticize.

"Maybe you can't imagine what happened, but you were part of it," Johnny mutters under his breath. "You and your goddamn friends."

It's true. Johnny has always been kind of weak and timid, but he's never been _this_ bad off. After that beating, he hasn't been the same. It's not just the fear or the jumpiness. In the months since it happened, he's felt completely, utterly helpless. Helpless to stop bad things from happening, helpless to protect himself, helpless to do anything but feel helpless.

That night, he had started out brave, slinging insults back at them, defending himself with his wits and his fists. But there were too many of them. They were bigger than him, and stronger, and mean with drink. And they didn't win because they had broken his ribs, scarred his face, or damaged his kidneys. They won because he had cried. They won because he had begged them to stop. He's taken a lot of beatings in his sixteen years, but he'd never begged before that night.

Since then, life has seemed like an endless strand of impersonal objects set out to defeat him, regardless of whether or not he fights back. What Johnny lost that night, besides a fight, besides an already tenuous sense of personal safety, was his self respect. He's stopped fighting.

"What do you mean?" Randy asks. "What do I have to do with your apathy?"

"Forget it."

"No, tell me what you mean. Are you speaking metaphorically? Do you know how tired I am of getting blamed for all of the world's problems as if I am personally responsible, just because I was born rich? I can't help being given all the breaks, Johnny, and I'm doing my best to be socially conscious-"

"It's not about your damn money!" Johnny interrupts. "And for such a _'socially conscious' _person, you sure have a real convenient memory." Randy's confused face infuriates Johnny even greater.

"You know what? I know what metaphorical means. And I'm speaking literally now. You and your buddies fucked me up. Take these." Johnny shoves the bag of charity clothes into Randy's chest. "And get out of my life."

TBC


	24. Chapter 24

Johnny is sitting on Curtis porch, smoking a cancer stick and poking the corner of the damaged screen with his foot, killing time. Ponyboy is sitting at his side and he's in one of his dreamy moods. He's telling Johnny about a novel he just finished involving friends who hitchhike across the country and spend their time writing poetry, doing drugs, and being 'promiscuous.' (Pony's wording.) It's easy to forget how young Ponyboy is because he's so smart. But Johnny thinks he sounds youngest when Ponyboy thinks he sounds oldest.

"I mean, there's kids out of wedlock and everything, and it's not even presented as this sin or tragedy like it is in classic literature," he goes on, impressed himself for reading something so controversial. "If Darry knew what was in the books I read, I swear he would never have let me become a bookworm," Pony concludes with a proud blow of smoke. That's when a blue Mustang comes into view from up the road, driving slowly.

Just before the Mustang reaches the Curtis house, it pulls over abruptly, screeching as it makes an awkward, illegal stop. Randy doesn't bother to shut off the car; he slams the driver's door behind himself and gets out, engine still going. Ponyboy's stare moves from the car to Johnny to Randy in complete shock.

Randy nods to Pony, "Hey Pony."

For the first time, Ponyboy doesn't say hello back. He spits.

To Johnny, Randy says, "We need to talk."

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"It was you, wasn't it?"

Johnny kicks at the dirt. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"About six months ago. In the lot not far from here. Bob, Greg, Dan, and I. We. Well, we... beat some kid up. Real bad."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Johnny repeats. But his voice sounds cracky and weak, even to his own ears.

"I was drunk, we all were, and it was dark. I don't remember much about that night. I didn't want to remember. God, I wish..." What Randy wishes is left unfinished, but it's easy enough to guess. There's anger in his confession. The bitter, hateful anger of a person who holds himself in contempt.

Johnny doesn't care if he's sorry.

"The first time in the library, you looked familiar. I just didn't put the two together. But now I know. It was you. That kid we hurt. That's where I recognize you from." Randy fingers his crisp, pressed collar.

Johnny checks behind his back and sees Ponyboy leaning forward eagerly on the porch in hopes of overhearing. Pony can see them, but he's too far away for eavesdropping.

"Shut up, okay? You want my friends to know you did it?" Johnny mutters. But that's just an excuse. He's trying to hush Randy not to protect Randy, but to protect himself. He doesn't want to talk about it. Or think about it. He relives the memory enough, against his will, in the dark when he's alone. He doesn't need Randy to bring it up and add salt to his wounds.

For some reason, as long as they never spoke about it, a part of Johnny could pretend it never happened. A part of him could ignore those memories, push them aside and focus on how Randy was helping him in the moment. But if he has to hear Randy talk about that night, he doesn't think they can go back from that. _Don't acknowledge it,_ he mentally begs. _Don't acknowledge it. It didn't happen. _

"Johnny, you gotta listen," Randy continues, ignoring him, "I thought we killed that boy, I was reading the obituaries for days. It was a nightmare. I swear to God I felt awful. I was going to turn myself in, but then nothing showed up in the papers, and I thought of my career. I want to go into politics, and I can't have a record. So I didn't do the right thing. And I tried to forget. And I promised myself I wouldn't do something like that again.

"I thought about what you said yesterday for hours, and somehow I knew where I saw your face. I just kept telling myself, that's not possible, that's not possible. I swear to God I didn't sleep all night. But it was you. All this time it was you. Johnny, listen," Randy pleads.

"I don't wanna talk about it." Johnny hitches his thumbs in his belt loops and arches his neck back, giving Randy a cool, indifferent scowl. "Look...let's just forget it ever happened. It wasn't a big deal."

But it was. They both know it was.

He remembers, all of it, although it feels more like a nightmare than a memory. Illogical and fragmented, absurd and impossible. Soda picking him up in the lot, half-conscious. Dally carrying him up the steps of the hospital. The judgmental stares of the patients in the waiting room. The voice of the doctor. The hands of the nurses. Days and nights sleeping on the Curtis sofa, his buddies' voices hushed as they walked by, the only time the t.v. was ever off in that house. Steve spoon-feeding him some God-awful broth. Two-Bit relating the plot of every Mickey Mouse episode he could remember even though Johnny's head hurt too badly to follow. Darry staying home from work, picking him up and carrying him to the bathroom because he couldn't walk. Ponyboy, sitting on the edge of the bed, reading to him from a book of poetry. '_Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though...'_

"It was just supposed to be a normal jumping. It got out of control." Randy is protesting as if Johnny had accused him, rather than shrugged the crime aside.

"I said I didn't wanna talk about it."

"But Johnny, you've got to understand. We didn't mean to take it that far. We were drunk." Randy steps closer to him and Johnny steps away.

He remembers falling to his face, too weak to pick himself up, a boy pinning him down.

_"__You know what I hate? Greasers. Always stealing our cars, robbing our houses, flirting with our women, taking our hard-earned money for their damn welfare checks. You're nothing but a white trash, worthless hoodlum. And I'm sick of being fucked over by hoodlums." The guy slaps him in the face._

_"So how about we fuck you over, grease? How'd you like that? Little shits like you are a pain in our ass, so we should be a pain in yours. Sounds fair, doesn't it?"_

_The laughter that follows–the pleasure they take in terrorizing him–is worse than the threats. The boy taunting him slaps him in the face again. The wind has been knocked out of Johnny from being kicked in the gut too many times; his face is cut up, there's blood dripping across his jawline onto the grass and into his gasping mouth and he's choking on it. He can't even say no. _

_"__We won't even need lube. All we gotta do is wipe some of that grease off your hair." _

_And please, please, please, someone help. Someone stop this. Sometime hear them and intervene and-_

_More laughter, and,"Shoot, is he crying? Man, you really had him convinced." The boy gets off him and kicks him in the ribs. _

_Johnny wants to die. _

Every time a loud sounds startles him so bad he nearly has a heart attack, every time an object in his peripheral vision causes him to shrink in fear, every time a car drives by too closely and his breathing picks up so bad it sounds like he's got asthma, every time he catches the glint of platinum, jeweled rings in the sunlight, every time he smells vodka on some guy's breath, the brand of Randy's damn cologne...

"I didn't know you, then," Randy says. "But if I had know you like I do now, I swear I would never have-"

"Screw that," Johnny interrupts. "You knew it was somebody. That should have been enough. But I guess I wasn't somebody to you. I wasn't even a person. Just a loser greaser nobody cared about-"

"Please, Johnny. I'm sorry." Randy reaches for him, but Johnny pulls away.

"I don't care if you're sorry. It ain't enough. I told you I didn't wanna talk about it, but you couldn't leave it alone, could you? Just go. Get out of here."

"Johnny," Randy reaches to him again, and this time Johnny punches him. Hard.

Randy grabs his face and cusses in his hands. When he move his hands away, a thin strand of blood is dripping from his nose to his chin. But Randy doesn't retaliate. Instead, he looks directly in Johnny's eyes. His voice is muffled from the altercation when he asserts, "I'm not going. Not until we work this out."

"What the hell do you want from me?"

"I want your forgiveness."

Randy is standing before him in helpless remorse. And now that Johnny finally has the power for the first time in his life, he doesn't feel particularly merciful. He swallows, gathering gumption.

"You want a hell of lot more than that from me than that, faggot. If you try to talk to me again, I'll tell everybody what you are."

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Johnny joins Ponyboy back on the porch. "Randy's not my friend anymore," he says simply.

"Good." Ponyboy's voice is hard.

"Why good?" Johnny asks. He crosses his arms. "You said we made sense."

"You told me the boys who beat you up were in a blue Mustang."

They stare at each other for a couple seconds. Ponyboy doesn't try to hide the disappointment on his face. Johnny guesses he is pretty pathetic, being judged and found wanting by a thirteen-year-old kid, knowing full well that that thirteen year old kid's judgment is spot on. It was stupid to ever get involved with somebody who had done that to him. He should have known better.

Johnny lights up a cigarette. Ponyboy lights up a cigarette.

"Don't tell Dally," Johnny says.

TBC


	25. Chapter 25

Author's Notes:

Thanks so much to everyone who has been reading and reviewing. The people in this fandom are amazing! I appreciate your feedback (positive or critical), and I'm glad people seem to be enjoying the story so far. Y'all have made this writing process rewarding!

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It's late November, and the temperature has dropped dramatically, so that nights have become unbearably cold. Johnny hates this time of year. He wishes he could skip ahead to spring. Every year from November to April, Johnny has to make the same impossible choice at least once a week: stay at home and face his folks' wrath, sleep in the lot and face the elements, or bum the night with a buddy and face his pathetic neediness.

School let out a few hours ago, and besides a miserable half hour at home, Johnny has been walking around his neighborhood, his thumbs hitched in his belt loops. He's craving a cancer stick something awful, but he only has three left that he needs to use sparingly; he's too jittery right now to go lift one from a drugstore. With his luck today, he'll get caught: school was shitty, and home was shittier because of it. His old man is pissed at him again because the school called. Johnny's grades have started slipping now that he hasn't been to tutoring in three weeks.

The days have gotten shorter, and Johnny knows he doesn't have much longer until the sun goes down, and he'll have to make his decision. He's been absentmindedly headed to the park, but Johnny backtracks, deciding last minute to take a visit to the Curtis house. There's bound to be someone there who'd be willing to kill time with him. And maybe Darry will invite him to stay the night and save him the embarrassment of asking.

When Johnny reaches their block, he sees Darry outside alone, raking leaves into piles. Johnny jogs up, hoping that Darry will tell him Ponyboy is inside finishing his homework. Listening to Pony ramble on always settles Johnny's nerves.

"Hey Johnny," Darry says in a clipped, annoyed way. Johnny wonders if he's being paranoid or if Darry is legitimately angry to see him. Darry picks up a large pile of leaves and carries it over to an unlit fireplace in the corner of the yard.

"Hey Darry," Johnny returns. He waits on the sidewalk, a little uncomfortable. Darry's never been mean to him, but they haven't spent a significant amount of time together either, just the two of them. Johnny doesn't really know what to say to him. He's not warm like Soda and Pony. Johnny doesn't blame him, though. He has it harder than they do.

"So I guess you're not at the movies with Pony, huh?" Darry asks. He shakes his head, pissed off. Johnny breathes a sigh of relief, because while Darry is mad, at least Darry's not mad at _him_.

"Um..."

"He told me he was going with you, but I guess that dumb kid went alone again. I swear to God for a kid so smart, he's the stupidest boy I know."

Johnny agrees with Darry–it is unsafe for Ponyboy to go alone. But Johnny's too loyal to Pony to say so.

"None of the boys are around right now."

Johnny figures that's Darry's nice way of telling him to get lost, and Johnny's about to say an awkward goodbye when Darry continues talking. "Yeah, you just missed Soda. He remembered last minute he had a date with Sandy when I mentioned yard work." Darry smiles, a little fondly, a little bitterly.

"Oh," Johnny says.

"Would you quit hogging the conversation, Johnny Cade? I can't get a word in."

Johnny gives him a half-grin, and Darry tosses him the rake. "You wanna help out?"

"Sure."

Johnny hasn't done much work keeping up the Curtis property, but from the little he has done, he genuinely likes it. He helped Darry paint the house over the summer, and Darry even taught him how to use a hammer and lay down planks when he was fixing dry rot on the porch. Steady, simple work suits him well: he slips into the rhythm easily. There is something comforting about taking care of something, restoring it to its rightful state. If he were a bigger guy and could handle carrying heavy weights, roofing (like Darry does) or something in construction would be just right for him. But he's pretty sure he'd be laughed at if he asked for work at a place like that. He's 5'5", and in September, when the school nurse gave him his annual physical, he weighed in at 106 pounds.

Johnny rakes while Darry gathers the leaves and takes them to the towering burn pile. The work is soothing and steady, and Johnny enjoys listening to the leaves rustle as they're moved and the quiet sound of Darry's breathing as he works beside him. The ground is damp, and the bottom layer of leaves that cover the yard are stuck to the mud beneath them. Johnny has to use a lot of force to pull them up, and the effort of raking is warming every part of his frigid body except his fingers, toes, and nose.

"So Ponyboy tells me you had some trouble at lunch today," Darry says.

Johnny's stops raking for a second in surprise, and then picks up the pace again with more fervor. "It was nothing," Johnny says, shrugging it off. "Just Socs being Socs. You know how it is."

For the past three weeks, Randy has avoided Johnny in the hallways. Johnny has avoided Randy right back. This unspoken agreement had been faithfully kept, until earlier today.

Johnny had been late to lunch because he'd taken a smoke break in the bathroom. As his luck would have it, he had to pass the senior Soc table to get to the table where Ponyboy and Two-Bit were waiting for him in the back of the cafeteria. Johnny had been so focused on not looking at Randy that he didn't notice when Bob stuck out his foot to trip him. He'd gone flying to the floor and landed right on his face, just like in a Saturday morning cartoon. The Socs had laughed as he picked himself up, and then the surrounding tables joined in. "Careful not to slip on all that grease," Bob had said. Randy had laughed the loudest.

Johnny knows he shouldn't be hurt by that, considering how he ended things. But he is.

Randy is back on the football team. He's going steady with a pretty, popular girl named Marcia. She has dark hair like Johnny. Dark eyes like Johnny. Tan skin like Johnny. Johnny's seen his arm slung around her in the hallways. She's a cheerleader who wears pink pencil skirts and cashmere sweaters and just the right amount of eyeliner. Randy makes a point of brushing her hair back and kissing her in public. Of flirting with her and saying teasingly inappropriate things right there in school, where everybody can see them. They look perfect together.

Johnny knows he shouldn't be hurt by that either. But he is.

"Pony said you'd quit tutoring, too," Darry says.

Johnny stiffens. He wonders what else Ponyboy let out. He wonders if Darry knows about the blue Mustang and Randy's involvement in his jumping. He wonders if it's going to get back to Dally.

"I'm glad," Darry says, firmly. His voice has that hint of comforting authority. "That was a wise decision. I didn't like you hanging around that Adderson kid."

"I guess...I guess he's known for jumping greasers or something?" Johnny asks, trying to see if he can trick Darry into revealing how much Ponyboy told him.

"That's not it," Darry says. He's giving Johnny a hard, questioning look, and Johnny can see the change in his face when he comes to his decision. "You know what? You're old enough to hear it. I always forget you're about Soda's age.

"I caught Randy and Paul Holden–I don't know if you remember Paul, he was the best halfback on our team and we used to be pretty friendly–anyway, I caught them messing around in the locker room after football practice one time during my senior year."

"Oh," Johnny manages to say. His voice comes out off pitch.

"I know," Darry says. "Pretty sick. But I didn't tell anybody. I figured it wasn't my business. And when you're on a team, you stay loyal to your teammates. Even still, Paul has hated me ever since. When I heard you were being tutored by that Randy kid, Jesus Christ, I was about ready to forbid it. You're a nice kid, Johnny. You've been so good to Pony after, well, after our folks passed. Not many people stick around after something like that. Shows you've got real character. You're like another little brother to me, you dig? I didn't want you exposed to that messed up shit. And to be honest, don't be offended but...I was worried he'd harass you if he got you alone. I mean, you're old enough to take care of yourself, I know that. But you know how the gays are. You're too innocent to be around creeps like that."

Johnny's heart is pounding in his ears and a crushing weight is sinking into his chest. He holds onto the rake as firmly as possible. The splintered wood of the stick that is callousing his palm is the only thing keeping him aware of the physical world. He wishes he could curl up and die.

"Look. I'm telling you 'cause I know you keep your mouth shut. And 'cause Pony's on the track team with him. So I want you to do me a favor."

Johnny nods.

"Look after Ponyboy, okay? I hate the fact he's hanging around queers during practice. It worries the hell outa me."

Johnny bites his lip, pushing back the sob that wants to escape his chest. He is, what is the phrase? A wolf in sheep's clothing. That is exactly how Johnny feels.

Darry, so caught up in his own responsibilities and troubles, rambles on, not noticing. "That kid is always worrying the hell outa me. I swear I'm going to get gray hairs soon. I had no idea how hard this was going to be. And I'm damn clueless when it comes to raising him right. I feel like everything I do is the wrong thing, and we keep drifting farther and farther apart. He just doesn't listen, and he makes me so angry sometimes. I'm only trying to do what's best."

And then Darry's hand is on Johnny's shoulder. "You don't look too good, kid. Are you sick?"

Johnny shakes his head no. He thinks he might throw up.

"I'm sorry, Johnny. I shouldn't have been laying all my burdens on you." Darry puts his hand on Johnny's forehead. "You don't have a fever at least," he says. He pulls the rake out of Johnny's hand. "I can finish the rest tomorrow."

"I'm fine." He needs to leave. Right now. He can't bear for Darry to be so kind to him. Not while Johnny's betraying his trust.

"You know, you can spend the night here if you don't feel like walking back." Johnny's home is a five-minute walk away. But it was considerate of Darry to phrase it like that and avoid mentioning his folks, because he knows Johnny's home life embarrasses him. Darry has always been considerate.

"Why don't you come inside and get some rest?" he offers. "I've got some cream of broccoli soup I can heat up for you. It's canned, but it's still good."

"No, Darry, I-"

"You know I don't mind you hanging around. Honestly kid, you should come over more often. Lord knows nobody else helps me with the yard work," he jokes.

But Darry would mind, if he knew. Johnny knows that 'mind' doesn't even begin to cover it.

Darry is protective of the people he cares about. Dangerously protective. For Darry, whose certainty of a safe world collapsed when he lost his folks, the universe is divided between the gang he's responsible for and people and situations that are potential threats to them. He's the oldest, and he acts a hundred years older than he is. He reminds Johnny of a war sergeant: stern and fatherly, always watching out for those under his command, prepared to protect and serve in the face any disaster.

As a member of the gang, Johnny ranks among the people Darry cares for. But Darry loves his brothers first, and if he knew the truth, Johnny would be on the other side of the divide, nothing more to him than a threat he needs to protect Ponyboy from. Johnny doesn't have those types of feelings for Ponyboy, and even if one day he did, he would never, ever hurt Pony. But if all his lies were exposed, no one would believe him. He's scared just imaging Darry screaming at the two of them, questioning every time they've ever been alone together.

Johnny feels sick. Darry is a good man. He's a good friend, and he's a good brother, and one day, he'll be a good father. And it is the good people of the world who don't want people like him in it.

"I'm just gonna go home," Johnny says.

Darry squeezes his arm, a little sadly. "You sure you don't want some soup?"

Johnny shakes his head.

"You take care of yourself, okay buddy? Thanks for the help. And thanks for listening."

TBC


	26. Chapter 26

Warnings: Explicit content ahead.

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That night, Johnny is curled up next to the dying fire in the lot, his arms wrapped around his knees for warmth. He knows he should go find kindling before the fire goes out entirely and he has to waste twenty minutes trying to start up another, but he is too sleepy and apathetic to get up and go searching. He doesn't know if can face the Curtis family ever again.

Johnny's nodding off into his knees when he snaps fully awake in sudden alertness. With sixteen years of experience in both running from home and being kicked out, he knows the difference between the sound of a person and the sound of a raccoon. And that's definitely not a raccoon.

He looks behind him and sees a vague figure of a man in the distance, making his away over towards his fire. In the darkness of the night, the only thing he can tell for sure is that the man looks tall and lean. Cautiously, Johnny gives the gang's customary whistle, hoping the passerby is Two-Bit or Steve or Dally. He has a scratchy low voice from all the cigarettes he smokes, and the whistle ends in a high note that he can never quite reach.

Nobody returns the whistle.

Johnny stands up and pulls out his switchblade. He flicks it open and holds it in front of himself, his body taut, the blade reflecting the red embers of the fire. The person wanders closer. He's stumbling, Johnny realizes. It's a drunk.

Johnny steps back tentatively towards the fire. He holds the handle of the blade more firmly, his palm suddenly sweaty. Johnny knows what comes of men getting liquored up and going wandering around, looking for trouble. And it ain't nothing good. He takes a deep breath. Whoever it is is definitely coming toward him. It isn't an accident. He's almost close enough that Johnny can make out his features when-

"I was hoping I'd find you here," Randy says.

Johnny sees him now, deep shadows moving across his face. His adrenaline is still running like crazy, but for a more confusing reasons now than he cares to admit, now that he knows it's Randy and not some homeless wino. He wishes he could tell the pounding of his heart to shut up. He realizes he's only ever seen Randy at nighttime once before. And he's only ever seen Randy drunk once before as well. And that didn't end well for him.

"Don't come near me," Johnny warns. "You've been drinking."

"Yup," Randy admits. "You caught me." He steps closer to Johnny. "But don't worry, I'm not wasted. I'm just tipsy enough to make bad decisions. I've drank enough in my life to know the difference." His speech is slurred but comprehensible.

Johnny swallows.

"You're wearing my sweater," Randy says. He sounds touched. It's probably the liquor talking, Johnny thinks.

Johnny looks down at himself. He's dressed in that same argyle sweater that he had been wearing when he walked out of Randy's house over three weeks before. It's long on him, and the lower half peeks out under the hem of his jeans jacket. But Johnny isn't wearing it out of sentiment. He's wearing it out of necessity. It's a cold night.

"I missed you, too," Randy says.

"Yeah. I could tell by the way you laughed when Bob tripped me," Johnny snaps.

"Come on. I had to go along with it. You know that."

"Just get away from me, Randy. You're drunk." Johnny waves the knife in front of himself, loosely, in the way that Two-Bit taught him. It's a casual threat.

"I'm not here to hurt you. So why don't you get rid of that knife?"

Johnny looks at his blade; he looks at Randy. Reluctantly, he closes it, staring at Randy the whole time in case he's trying to trick him. He puts it back in his pocket, his hand hovering in the event he needs to make a quick grab for it.

"I don't mean put it away," Randy clarifies. "I mean get rid of it for good."

"You must be drunker than you think. Why the hell would I do that?"

"Because I don't want you to hurt someone in a way you can't take back. I don't want you to live with that on your conscience." Randy pauses. "Like I do."

Johnny crosses his arms. He won't let himself fall for Randy's pity party. "Just go away, man. Leave me the fuck alone and go back to your perfect life and your perfect girlfriend."

"I'm not leaving," Randy says.

"I have nothing to say to you! How many times do I have to tell you that I don't want to talk? I think I made that pretty clear the last time you came around."

"I didn't come here to talk."

"Then what did you come here for?" Johnny's voice is low and quiet, barely audible above the dull crackling of the fire.

"I think you can guess." Randy steps so close they occupy the same space. Stubbornly, Johnny stays put. He stares down at their touching shoes: his worn canvas tennis sneakers caught between Randy's leather brogues. Despite the bitter chill of the night, a long bead of sweat runs down Johnny's back. If Randy tries to hit him, he's ready.

Randy doesn't hit him. He grabs Johnny's bangs and uses them to pull Johnny's face toward him; Johnny's neck cracks as his head is jerked back and his lower lip feels the sharp bite of a forced kiss. He can taste the stale liquor in Randy's mouth.

Before, in Randy's bedroom and on the bleachers, Randy had been gentle, holding back even when acting rough. Johnny can feel the difference now; their kiss feels more like a brawl than an embrace. Randy pulls at the collar of his jeans jacket, and Johnny pulls at the buttons of Randy's shirt, snapping off three with the force of his grip. Johnny doesn't know whether he wants to beat him up or get him off.

And somehow, they're tumbling in the dry grass, pushing and pulling at each other, stopping short of being intimate, stopping short of being violent. Randy pins him, knees pressed down on Johnny's elbows. Johnny groans at the weight that half-suffocates him, half excites him. His pulse is racing. He should push Randy off. But he thinks if he tried to push him away he'd start pulling him towards himself instead. So he speaks.

"Get off me." His lungs are constricted by Randy's weight; his words come out muffled. His whole body is shaking. Before, there was no distinction between where his arousal ended and his panic began. Now, a clear, sharp fear courses through his body. He should never have put away his knife. Johnny is hyperventilating as Randy slides a hand under his hips, feeling him through his jeans. He's still hard. He squeezes his eyes shut. Even if it does feel good, Randy is drunk and Johnny doesn't want it.

"Randy, come on, please. Stop." He hates how panicky he sounds.

Aggravated, Randy pushes off of him and cusses under his breath. As his weight recedes, Johnny's left relieved and disappointed, the feelings muddled together somehow. He sits up and wraps his arms around his knees. He's not sitting like that for warmth this time.

Randy, standing now, towers over him and stares down. "You're such a coward, Johnny Cade," he spits. The word 'such' is drawn out too long, thanks to alcohol.

"Shut up," Johnny mutters through clenched teeth. "You shut the hell up."

"No."

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" Johnny begs. "Go away."

"It's public property. I can be here if I want." Which just shows how obnoxious he is, Johnny thinks bitterly; Randy can take advantage of the fact that he has the whole world at his feet and Johnny has no place else to go but some shitty vacant lot.

"Randy, go home to your girlfriend."

"You're not getting rid of me that easily."

"What, do I have to break your nose again? Is that what it'll take?" Johnny's ready for it, too. Even though he's still sitting on the ground, dirt smudged on the side of his face, covering his scar, his body is tense, his hands curled in fists in anticipation of a fight.

"Why can't you let me love you?"

Johnny feels the blood drain from his face. That was not what he expected to hear. Not at all.

"You don't love me. You want to screw me. There's a difference." He says this with absolute certainty.

Randy runs a hand through his hair. "No. I love you. You probably think I'm crazy, but it's true. These past two months…I've never met anybody like you. Everyone I know is so shallow. All they care about are cars, and girls, and grades, and acting tough. But not you. You get it. And you have to trust me when I tell you how horrible I feel about what we did to you. Please, Johnny, you have to let me make it up to you. Let me love you."

Johnny gives Randy a mistrusting look. "You're drunk. It's the booze talking." But even Johnny can hear his own resolve softening in that sentence. He thinks, even if it is the booze talking, it's the nicest thing booze has ever said to him.

"It's not the booze," Randy says. "I'm being honest about what I want right now. I came looking for you tonight because I feel like shit about what happened in the cafeteria today."

"You should," Johnny mutters.

Randy frowns at him and continues. "I thought I could try one more time to make it right. I thought I could force you to forgive me. But there's nothing I can do or say to make you believe me, is there?" He sounds sad, defeated. He rubs his shoes in the earth.

Until tonight, nobody has ever told Johnny that they love him. The boys have come close to it, especially Pony. They'll say things like, 'We can't get along without you.' Or even, 'You're so important to me, Johnny.' But never 'I love you.' They're just words. They shouldn't mean so much. Randy said them three times.

"You really love me?" Johnny asks, his words spoken to his knees.

"Yeah. I must be a masochist or something. But I do."

"Okay then."

"Okay what?" Randy asks.

"We can..." Johnny's voice trails off into his knees, leaving the end of the sentence open. He doesn't understand why, but he's the one who sounds defeated this time.

Randy approaches him, slowly. He kneels down in front of him. Gently, he takes Johnny's chin in his hand. He kisses his cheek. He kisses his neck. Johnny closes his eyes. Randy kisses his lips, but even a soft kiss still tastes like the rank flavor of cheap vodka. Randy pulls away, checking his face. "You're not going to back out on me again, are you?"

Johnny shakes his head.

"Do you want to go to my car? It's parked a few blocks away."

Johnny's eyes widen. He shakes his head again. He hates that car.

"We don't have anywhere else to go," Randy says, looking around nervously.

"Nobody really comes by here," Johnny mumbles.

Randy guides Johnny so that he's lying down on his side. He's doesn't need to pin him, Johnny complies. Randy's fingers graze Johnny's belt buckle.


	27. Chapter 27

Warnings: References to sexual activity.

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"I can't do this."

Johnny can feel his fear like a drum throbbing inside his ear. He doesn't want to go through with this. They're face-to-face, Randy is holding him down by his arms and rubbing against him. Johnny's breathing is labored, labored from the pressure of Randy's body on top of him, labored from the pleasure burning through the center of him.

"I can't do this," he repeats.

Randy leans in, taking in the sweaty scent of Johnny's neck. His eyes are squeezed shut, his body a long, taut line of misery.

"I can't do this," Randy says a third time. He slides off of Johnny.

For several seconds, Johnny doesn't understand what has just happened. He hears Randy's words, but their meaning is incomprehensible. He only feels the stinging cold of the night replace the heat of Randy's body. As he lies there, staring at the stars, which are murky under clouds and light pollution, he realizes Randy has stopped. Not paused. Stopped. He hears the thud, thud, thud of his heart. He sits up.

Randy is sitting beside him, his pants are already pulled up and zipped, his fingers grasping at his collar. Johnny can see the tension and frustration in the way his veins protrude more prominently than normal on the back of his hands. They're dangerous hands, Johnny thinks. Then he realizes he's staring at Randy, and he turns away. It strikes him that he's just been rejected.

Johnny swallows. Confusion and humiliation replace fear and desire. He pulls up his jeans, his hands shaking as he zips his fly. He has to try three times before his fingers are steady enough to close the button at the top of his pants.

The impossibility of the situation, the sheer, utter shame of it is closing in on him. He'd been willing to give into those baser instincts that he knows are immoral for Randy's sake; he'd been willing to do something he wasn't sure he even wanted to do for Randy's sake; he'd been willing to go against his promise to Dally, which is the worst thing he's ever done. And now Randy doesn't even want him. He just threw him aside like trash, right after they started. Like all he cared about was Johnny giving in, and now that Johnny has soiled himself he's worthless.

"You said you loved me." Johnny hears the betrayal in his voice and bites down on his lip. He needs to change that. He needs to sound cold and uncaring.

"And that's why I stopped."

"I, I don't...I don't get it."

Randy turns to him. He's angry. "I stopped because you don't want to do it."

"That's not true!" Johnny shouts. Except, it is. But why his feelings on the matter would have stopped Randy when he had Johnny's permission makes no sense to him.

Randy rubs at the stubble above his lip. He sighs. "For a second there, I really thought you had forgiven me. I thought you loved me back. But I was lying to myself because I wanted to believe it. You were just giving in. And I'm not going to make you do something you don't want to do."

"Screw that," Johnny snaps. He's relieved he doesn't have to go through with it, so he should be grateful. But he's not grateful. He's pissed. "I didn't give into you, okay? I'm old enough to make my own decisions. I don't need your patronizing shit."

"Yes. Yes, you do. Jesus." Randy glowers at him and shakes his head. "You were about to let me _fuck_ you when you didn't want it, and why? Because I said I loved you? You never stick up to anybody who you think might care about you, no matter what they do, and it's so messed up I could scream. You are so goddamn weak and I-"

"Fuck you."

"No. Fuck you." Randy stands up. "You know what? You want me out of your life? I'm out of it. I give up. I can't keep doing this."

Johnny stands up, too. He vigorously brushes a layer of dirt off his jeans. "Good, get out!"

"I will!"

Johnny steps towards Randy and pushes him. Randy stumbles back, but he doesn't fall down.

"Stop it, Johnny. Don't make me hit you."

"I'm just _sticking up for myself_," Johnny mimics Randy's voice, bitterly. He pushes Randy again.

Randy shoves him back, and then Johnny socks him in the face, hitting the place where his cheekbone meets his ear. Randy falls back, balls his hand in a fist, and aims at Johnny.

The booze has affected his aim, and he narrowly misses Johnny's chin. Johnny socks him again, this time in the eye, and then he makes a move to elbow him, when Randy grabs his arm, violently twists it behind his back, kicks his ass, and shoves his face into the dirt. Randy's on top of him in seconds, and Johnny knows, now that he's pinned, he has no chance of winning the fight. Randy's over six feet tall. He's athletic and he probably has a hundred pounds on him. But Johnny's livid, he's furious, and for the first time in a long time, the certainty of losing doesn't stop him from trying.

They grapple there in the dirt. Randy throws him on his back. Johnny's skull cracks against something hard. The world is going black, in and out of focus, black then blurry, black then blurry. Randy doesn't hold back when punches him in the face. And again. And again. And again. He's passing out.

When the world comes into focus, it's still not in focus: Johnny can't see straight. He knows what that means; his eye is already swollen. Nobody's on top of him now, but still his whole body smarts, and he tastes the sour copper of blood in his mouth. He touches the back of his head. There's blood there, too. Johnny turns around and sees a round, rusted piece of discarded metal poking out from the dirt, perhaps the remnants of an electric pole or lamppost from when the state had money and the lot used to be kept up.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Randy screams. "I told you I didn't want to hit you! Shit! I came here to make up, not fight." His voice breaks on that last word.

Randy's already got a bruise forming on the side of his face, and he's going to a black eye as well, but Johnny can take a good guess that he looks a lot more messed up than Randy does.

They stare at each other for a couple seconds. And then Randy turns around and leaves him there, alone.

TBC


	28. Chapter 28

Johnny's desperately grateful it's a Friday night. At least one of the boys has got to be up to something, even if it is past midnight. He can't spend the night alone. He doesn't even care if they see him like this, so long as he doesn't have to be alone. He walks back to his nook and puts his foot into the dying embers and squelches the remaining flames of the fire out, hissing in pain as he grinds the charred wood. He shoves his hands into his pockets, trying to figure where he's gonna go.

Even though the Curtis house is closest, he doesn't want to go there. Partly because of Darry, partly because of Ponyboy. Pony has always sought his advice and shared his secrets so trustingly, and if Ponyboy only knew how he behaved tonight, the depravity of what he'd been willing to do, that poor innocent kid would be devastated. He can't face him after this. And he doesn't want to see Ponyboy when he's bruised up. He doesn't want to worry him.

The person he wants most to see is Dallas. But there is shame facing him as well, and he'd soon as avoid him as he would run to him. He figures he should find Two-Bit. Two-Bit will crack jokes and cause mischief and make him laugh and forget about everything for the night. And Two-Bit's always soused on weekends, so maybe he'll share some of his liquor so Johnny can really forget. He doesn't even care if he makes himself sick. In fact, he hopes he does.

First Johnny heads to the Jay's, one of two twenty-four seven joints on the east side of town, but none of his buddies are there. He does see Curly Shepard loitering outside with another vaguely familiar kid greaser whose name he doesn't know. Curly's corkscrew black hair is slicked back and his hard blues eyes are scowling; his friend's wearing nothing but a black undershirt even though it's freezing tonight, showing off lean, cut muscles and a long, vertical scar. They look like they walked right out of a public service announcement decrying teen violence. Johnny's trying to avoid them and slip away when Curly catches his eye and nods him over.

Johnny sighs, trying to blow his bangs out of his face, but they're too heavy with grease to move. Gingerly, he makes his way over to Curly and the other boy. He's pretty messed up, and kinda light-headed. Johnny joins them and leans up against the wall of the building, slouching as if he's acting cool, but really he doesn't want anything to touch the back of his head right now. It kills.

"What happened, man? You get into a fight?" Curly asks. "You get jumped again?"

"I fell," Johnny snaps sarcastically.

Curly shrugs. "That sucks," he says without an ounce empathy. "Hey, what the hell are you wearing? I didn't realize it was Halloween. That's a good costume. Dead Soc."

Johnny looks down at himself. His jeans jacket is still unbuttoned, and Randy's preppy argyle sweater, now complete with grass and bloodstains, is in full view for every greaser to see.

"Mind your own fucking business," Johnny says. And then, "Aren't you supposed to be under house arrest?"

Curly grins. "If I get caught 'violating the conditions,' I get sent back to reform school."

"Maybe you should't violate the conditions then," Johnny shoots.

Curly shrugs again. "You gotta smoke? I'm all out." By his tone, he obviously expects Johnny to hand one over, even though they barely know each other.

Curly is between Johnny's and Pony's ages, but he's always felt older than both of them. Johnny's doesn't like him one bit. He's got a mean edge to him, and Johnny hates the idea of Ponyboy hanging around him. He's a bad influence. Then again, maybe Johnny's shouldn't be the one judge when it comes to that. Speck and plank or whatever that nice old minster preached about one time.

Johnny reaches into his pocket to grab Curly a cancer stick, and Curly's friend says, "Hey, give me one while you're at it."

Johnny only has three left. He gives away two and takes the last for himself. Then he tosses the packet onto the gravel. The three of them smoke in silence for a while.

"You looking for Dallas?" Curly asks.

"No. Why would you ask that?" Johnny says, suddenly defensive. He blows a ring of smoke up into the air, and then blows a straight line into the center of the dying circle.

"Tim complains about you. He says you're always tagging along with Dallas and that Dallas acts almost like an upright citizen when you're around. He says you're a damn wet blanket."

"I don't tag along," Johnny snaps.

Curly blows smoke into Johnny's face. "Don't shoot the messenger."

He knows it's bad for his reputation to let some fifteen-year-old hood walk all over him, but Johnny is in no condition to fight tonight, physically or mentally, so he lets it slide. "You're an asshole, Curly."

"Don't I know it." He stubs out his cigarette. "Anyway, they're out by the parking lot at the high school, doing wheelies and racing with some other boys. I think they're pretty drunk. Tim said I wasn't allowed to come. You wanna join them?"

"Sure," Johnny says. Partly because he wants to prove he's not a wet blanket, partly because he can't bear being alone right now. He pulls himself off the side of the diner.

"Shoot, you bled all over the wall," Curly says.

Johnny looks behind him. "I'm sure the wall can handle it."

Curly's friend laughs. "Man, this guy's real funny."

As they're walking past the dumpster in the alley behind Jay's, Johnny pulls off the sweater and leaves it with the trash.

#

By the time they get to the parking lot, the excitement is dying down. Two-Bit is there, kneeling down on the ground by his car and inspecting his back tire, which is flat. He has a wrench in his hand, which he's using to loosen the lug nuts. Dallas is sitting on top of Two-Bit's car, chugging back a flask.

Whosever car it was that Tim had 'borrowed' now has a smashed in bumper. There are two other cars and about seven or eight other greasers loitering around who Johnny doesn't know personally. They must be Tim's people.

"Howdy, Johnnycake! Is that you?" Dallas calls out to him, still high from the crazy racing of the night and all liquor he's consumed. Knowing Dally, it's whiskey.

"Shucks, kid, you're out of luck," Two-Bit says, glancing up only briefly from the car. "You just missed all the action."

"Curly, I told you not to come here!" Tim shouts. "Git over here so I can hit you!"

Curly laughs.

"What are you guys up to?" Johnny asks.

"I'm trying to fix this tire that Dally flattened. Dal here is being lazy and refusing to help me." Anybody else would have been annoyed, Two-Bit laughs it off. He knows Dally all too well to get upset with him.

"I'm helping," Dally says. "I'm supervising."

And then Johnny steps closer.

"Jesus Christ, not again." Dally jumps off the car and lands with a thud.

"What's the matter?" Two-Bit asks. He turns to look at them, and catches Johnny's face. He winces in sympathy. "Shoot, kid. That's pretty bad."

"What the hell are you doing wandering around? You should have gone straight to the Curtises'. Darry or Soda would've patched you right up," Dally scolds. "Stupid kid," he adds, muttering under his breath.

"I ain't that bad off."

"Have you seen your face?"

"Drop it, Dal. I came out here to have a good time. I don't need a lecture."

Dally heads over to Two-Bit at the side of the car. "Move over."

"I'm busy," Two-Bit says.

"Hand me the wrench." Two-Bit frowns at him and hands it over. Dallas snatches it out of his hand and shoves Two-Bit aside. He kneels down at the tire and vigorously lets in. It almost looks like he's attacking the car. "Go get the jack outa the trunk. And hurry up, will ya?"

"I can't believe it," Two-Bit shakes his head. "Dallas Winston is actually doing honest work."

"Yeah, well, believe it."

"What's the rush?" Two-Bit leans back against the car and takes a comb from his back pocket. He glides it through his hair casually, and even straightens out his sideburns.

"What the hell do you mean, what's the rush? As soon as I'm through with this tire, you're dropping Johnny and me off at Buck's. The idiot's got open wounds. I don't want that shit to get infected."

"Woah, Dal. Cool down. The kid just said he wanted to have a good time. Let him live a little."

Dally glares at Two-Bit. "Get me the jack."

#

The second they're alone, Dally says, "Who hurt you?" His voice doesn't leave room for evasion or argument.

"My old man." Johnny won't look him in the face.

"Doesn't look like your old man's work," Dally says. "That asshole never gets your face too screwed up. Guess he figures somebody at the school might get nosy."

And that's pretty pathetic. Johnny's dad lays in on him so often that Dally's familiar with the aftereffects.

"So, are you gonna tell me who jumped you?"

Johnny shrugs. "It don't matter. And anyway, it wasn't a jumping. I started it."

Dally raises an eyebrow. "You really need to get better at lying, kid. Nobody'd believe that one."

"No, Dal. I honestly did. I was real pissed."

Dally gives him an uncertain stare. "You're not lying," he says.

Johnny shakes his head.

"Do I know him?"

Johnny shakes his head again.

"What's his name?"

"Does it matter?" Johnny asks. "It wasn't a big deal. It was a one-on-one, fair skin fight. And I started it."

"It matters 'cause the piece of shit cracked the back of your head open. Jesus, Johnny. You might need stitches."

"I'm sure it ain't that serious," Johnny says. "And besides, he didn't mean to do that. It was an accident. He shoved me on the ground and there happened to be something sticking up. And anyway, I started it 'cause I lost control and then he lost control, and it's over now. So you need to let it go."

Dallas gives him a cold look. "He didn't _mean to_? It was an_ accident_? Damn it, you're defending him! Who the hell hurt you, Johnny? Was it one of the boys?"

"It's nobody you know, so lay off." Johnny crosses his arms and backs up so he's leaning against the wall.

"Well, it's gotta be, 'cause it was obviously somebody you give a shit about enough to protect. And I can count those people on my hands."

"Come on, Dal, please. I don't want to talk about it. I said you don't know him and I ain't lying."

Dally stares at him again. "No, you're not," he agrees. Dally lets out a long, controlled breath. "So you were seeing this guy." It's not a question.

The blood drains from Johnny's face. "No." He shakes his head, fast and scared. "No."

"I'm not mad at you, Johnny. You don't need to lie to me." Dally's voice is suddenly soft.

"I'm not lying," Johnny lies, mumbling into the floor.

"Yeah, you are," Dally protests. "Shoot." He pulls his hand through his hair. "If you had just listened to me-" but he stops himself before he can continue the lecture. "What was the fight about?" his voice is controlled, like he's putting a lot of effort into not shouting at Johnny.

Johnny shrugs. "I don't know."

"Was it about sex?" Dally pushes.

Johnny's face and chest go red. "That's private."

"So it was." Dally's voice has gotten meaner and colder. He grabs Johnny's arm and shakes him. "He hurt you anywhere else?"

"Nah," Johnny answers to the floor. "Only bruised up my face."

"And by hurt you anywhere else, I mean did he rape you?" Dally glares defiantly, unabashed by the directness of his question.

Johnny's mouth gapes open. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Dally, seriously. Jesus. No. It's nothing like that."

Dally swallows in relief. He lets go of Johnny. "Thank God," he mutters under his breath. "I thought..." he calms himself. "You wanna tell me what you fought about?"

Johnny sighs. "He rejected me is all, okay? Things were going fine, he even said he loved me, but I guess he was just lying because right after that he dumped me out of the blue. So I got mad. And we fought. And that's the end. Dal, don't give me that look. It's fine. I mean, I don't even care anymore. It was stupid of me to think somebody could love me."

"No, Johnny. It ain't stupid of you to think somebody loves you. It's stupid of you to think nobody does."

And Johnny makes sense of the words, and he looks up at Dallas in surprise. "What…what do you mean?" His voice on the verge of breaking.

"What do you think I mean? You have to know how the boys feel, don't ya? You'd have to be blind not to get it."

"I mean, we're friends…"

"The whole gang loves you." Dally shouts it. "We. all. love. you. How can you not see that?" He's still shouting. "Guys don't say that type of shit because it's gay-" He stops himself.

He hadn't meant the word literally. All the boys sling it at each other as an insult to curb anybody who starts acting too sensitive. If you cry, or you show too much emotion, or you back out of a fight, or you hug somebody too long, you or your behavior gets called girly or gay. Those are the rules when you live on the east side. Or maybe when you live anywhere.

Dally gives Johnny a bittersweet smile that doesn't even spread to one half of his mouth, let alone his eyes. "You know what I mean."

He hears Pony's _'gross'_ and Darry's_ 'you know how the gays are…' _"They wouldn't love me, if they knew me," Johnny asserts.

"Well, I know you. And I," Dally pauses. He stops shouting. "I love you."

Johnny stares at Dally, wide-eyed and speechless. Somehow, he finds himself shaking his head no. He just can't believe it.

"What the fuck do I have to do to make it clear to you? Decorate a notebook by writing Dallas Winston loves Johnny Cade inside a bunch of girly hearts? For crying out loud, Johnny, if that's what you need, shoot, I'll do it. Heck. You want me to get a fucking tattoo with your name on it? Will that convince you?

"Look. I ain't exactly proud of the fact you're queer, but you know what? Go looking for sex if you need to. You're sixteen. You've got a dick. I get it. And I ain't gonna bother you about it, so long as you protect yourself and keep your trap shut. But you listen to me Johnny, and you listen good. You don't need to go looking for love. You dig? The people who love you are right here."

Johnny sobs. And then the tears start flowing, uncontrolled and snotty and messy, and he can't make himself stop.

"Shit. Don't cry." Johnny cries harder. "Stop crying, right now. I mean it. I'm warning you."

Johnny feels the warm firmness of Dally's chest against his cheek.

"Why are you crying, kid?" Dally asks softly; he's holding him, cradling him.

This has probably been among the worst days of Johnny's life, from the failure he received on his English essay, to the trouble in the cafeteria, to his old man laying in on him at home, to Darry's request that he protect Ponyboy from people like him, to whatever it was that happened between him and Randy.

"I'm crying 'cause I'm happy," he says. He means it.

Johnny shifts a little in Dally's arms; he feels the course bristle of Dally's five o'clock shadow against his forehead. He can see, up close and blurry, the movement of Dally's Adam's apple as he swallows. He loves the scent of Dally, even if it's sweat and whiskey and sometimes horse shit. He doesn't know when their faces pressed together turns into a kiss. He does know he's the one who initiates it. Even the light pressure against his swollen lip feels like he's being clobbered again, but he doesn't care.

It takes Dallas three seconds to pull away. He keeps Johnny at arms length as he holds him back. "Don't," Dally says, stern, cautious. He drops his hands. They twitch at his side for a second, like he doesn't know what to do with them.

Johnny swipes his bangs out of his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to be," Dally tells him shortly. "You're hurt pretty bad," he says, deliberately changing the subject. He works his hand through Johnny's greasy hair, and Johnny watches as it comes away with a bent blade of yellow grass and a red, wet layer of blood.

"It's nothing."

Dally shakes his head and makes his way to the other side of the room, where his laundry is piled haphazardly on the floor. He grabs a couple of items and then comes back and dumps them in Johnny's hands.

"What are you-" Johnny looks down at his arms, where he's now holding a bath towel, a woolen shirt, pajama pants, and briefs.

"It's all clean," Dally says, like that would even matter to him. Whatever it is, it's cleaner than what he's wearing.

"I don't need-"

"You're staying the night. So yeah, you do. I'm gonna go make up the bed for you and find you a first-aid kit while you hop in the shower."

"Dal, you shouldn't give me your bed. I can take the floor."

"Are you arguing with me, Johnny Cade?"

Johnny turns away, his face warm. With embarrassment or happiness, he doesn't know. "No, Dal. I'm not arguing with you."

"I didn't think so."

TBC


	29. Chapter 29

The next morning, when Johnny wakes up in a disoriented haze, it takes him a minute to remember where he is, and then the events of the previous night come flooding back to him, the chronology shifting around in his mind until he makes vague sense of it. The sunlight sneaking in through the broken blinds hurts his eyes, and it's not only because he's just opened them. His whole brain is throbbing in the midst of a migraine, and his face has pain to match.

When sits up in Dallas's bed and places his feet down on the floor trying to center himself, he steps on something wet and gooey: the melted bag of succotash Dally had grabbed from Buck's freezer and made him hold to his face in four twenty-minute intervals before he fell asleep. Dally's makeshift bundle of blankets on the floor is crumbled up, and Johnny's alone in the room. He briefly debates with himself whether or not he should shut his eyes and try to fall back asleep until the pain of his headache recedes, but decides not to risk overstaying his welcome. Johnny forces himself to get up and head downstairs.

Buck's place looks different with the dust mites exposed by the stream of morning light shining through a window. The bar has the feeling of a saloon in an old west ghost town, left abandoned a century before instead of crowded a single night ago. The emptiness of its usual rowdy patrons is almost physical. There is an uneasy silence in the absence of drunken yeehaws and the customary sad, twanging guitar echoing out of the jukebox. The only sound is ticking of the old clock behind the bar. The left half of its face is hidden beneath the corner of a drooping Confederate flag, and Johnny can only make out the minute hand. It's thirteen after, but thirteen after what, he doesn't know.

Cold air bites at his face when he opens the door to find Dallas and Buck sitting on the porch, chewing tobacco underneath a neon sign advertising Bud. At nighttime, that sign glows like a beacon; it's the flame of a lighthouse or the candles in the window of a church, drawling in lonely strangers to the roadhouse. But the full shine of sunlight is stronger than the neon now.

"Woo boy. Look what the cat dragged in," Buck says with a whistle. His words are slurred, but whether it's simply his country accent or the tobacco in his mouth, Johnny's not sure.

"Does that make me the cat?" Dally asks with a raised brow.

"You're a shifty-ass alley cat if I ever met one, Winston. And I mean it kid, that's quite a shiner. Shin_ers_."

"Yeah," Johnny answers. He doesn't know Buck all that well, and the few times he's ever been around him, he's never known that to say. Buck's pretty old–he's twenty-five, which is not all that much younger than his mom–and they don't exactly have a lot in common.

"Crazy kid started a fight," Dally says, and Johnny recognizes a tone of feigned disapproval that's actually bragging. He's certain Dally is far from proud of him for getting involved in some messy quasi-relationship with a man, but for Dallas to uphold his reputation, his gang has to have a tough reputation, too. "Dumb ass," Dally adds. He grins up at Johnny and spits a wad of brownish-black tar out onto the dry grass.

"Let me guess, _I should've seen the other guy_?" Buck asks with a chuckle, like he knows Johnny lost the fight. Johnny shrugs.

"Gonna come watch us at the rodeo today?" Dally asks.

"Yeah."

"Your friend's a real talker, ain't he?" Buck says it like he's the first person to ever make note of it.

"I'm always telling him to shut up," Dally says noncommittally.

Johnny reaches for a cigarette, but when his hand falls to the lint-lined bottom of his pocket, he remembers he gave away his last two the night before. It feels like a hundred years ago.

He doesn't say anything, but Dally must notice, because seconds later Dallas says, "Think fast, Johnnycake!" the same time he chucks over a half-filled packet. It hits Johnny square in the face.

"Ouch!" Johnny groans. The last thing he needs is something–even something as light as a cigarette pack–smacking into his bruised-up face. Buck laughs.

Dallas hadn't meant to hit him, but he refuses to apologize nonetheless. "Next time think fast," Dally says with a shrug. Johnny kneels down to pick up the pack, muttering a slew of cusses. At least they're Kools.

He starts feeling better, at least marginally, as soon as he lights up. The steadiness of the menthol moving in and out of his smarting lips is calming, and it only takes seconds for the shaking of his cravings to settle as he sucks in with satisfaction. Johnny eyes Dally, his Adam's apple jutting sharply out in profile, his blue eyes stoic, his rigid body perfectly fitting next to Buck, and he thinks about what Dally had said the night before. He knows he's never going to hear those words again, and he's okay with that. Once was enough. He's a different man today than he was last night. He's a person that somebody cares about and wants around. And whenever things get tough, he can close his eyes and hear Dally's words, which felt like a promise.

His buddies don't know his secret. Maybe they would hate him if they did. But Dallas knows, and he doesn't hate him. So, then again, maybe they wouldn't. And maybe he shouldn't hate himself for it either, if Dally doesn't hate him for it. He's not sure. He's still not sure about anything. But for the first time, Johnny allows himself to consider the possibility that his friends' offers to help him are not coming from a place of pity or duty, but from something deeper. He considers the possibility of letting go, of curbing his instinct to resist their help, whatever it may be. A night on the couch. A free meal. Homework advice. He has always put his pride before his health, before his safety, before his friendships. He's going to try to fix that.

Johnny looks out into the distance, watching his smoke curl away into the wind. His focus shifts to the stretch of prairie wasteland bordering the highway that leads back to the crowded neighborhoods of Tulsa. Back to his buddies, back to home. And Dally's at his side.

#

"Why do I always have to sit in the middle?" Pony grumbles. Johnny moves closer to the car door to give him room, and the handle digs into the bone of his knee. They've just hoped in Two-Bit's car to head to the rodeo. Steve's driving because Two-Bit has already had too much to drink, even though it's only six in the evening, and Two-Bit's sitting shotgun. Ponyboy is stuck squished between Sodapop and Johnny in the back.

Pony crosses his arms in frustration. He's got long legs for his age–good for all that long-distance running–and he does make a ridiculous sight with his knees pressed high against his chest, his feet teetering on the ridge at the floor of the car's middle. "Johnny's skinnier than me," Pony whines. "He should get the middle."

"I'm sorry, Pone. I'll sit in the middle on the way home, okay?"

"No you won't. And quit your yaking, Baby Curtis," Steve scolds. A sharp right turn forces a screech from the wheels, sending Soda slamming into Ponyboy and Ponyboy slamming into Johnny. Johnny sees the look Steve shoots Pony through the rearview mirror as he does it. He's certainly glad that look ain't aimed at him. "Johnny's older 'n you. Show some respect. The only reason Darry even let you come is 'cause we're all gonna be there to babysit you."

Ponyboy's smoldering now, Johnny can see it in his pinched lips and the sudden, furious pink to his cheeks. Johnny wants to put an end to this before the two of them start bickering. "Honestly, I don't mind," he insists in a low voice.

"It doesn't matter whether or not you mind, it's the princi-"

"I'll sit in the middle on the way home," Two-Bit cuts in good-naturedly. "I'll need to. I plan on drinking so much I'll need you two greasers back there to hold me up."

Soda laughs, and then Two-Bit laughs at himself, and Johnny smiles. Even Pony and Steve look slightly mollified.

"I can't wait to see the horses," Soda says. He's leaning far out the window, as if his own eagerness could speed up the car.

"I wanna see Dally ride," Ponyboy says. "He's crazy. 'member how far he was thrown the last time I came?"

"Well, I got a different blonde on my mind," Two-Bit jokes with a sheepish grin.

"You've always got a different blonde on your mind," Steve mutters.

"What's her name?" Soda asks.

"Ginny? Georgia?" Two-Bit drawls a blank. "One of those. Guess I'll figure it out when I see her."

"How are you gonna figure it out?" Ponyboy asks.

"If I say a name and she don't slap me, then I've figured it out. If she slaps me, I guess I've figured it out too."

#

By the time they arrive, it's crowded and muddy, and a thousand conversations are taking place, drowning out the sound of the announcer, who's talking too fast to understand and using rodeo-specific terms Johnny doesn't know, anyway. Ponyboy hands Johnny a bag of popcorn, and Johnny reaches in. Pony's slathered it with so much butter that he has to lick it off his fingers and wipe his hands against his jeans.

Dally, Darry, Soda, and Ponyboy love it in the country, on the outskirts of Tulsa. Pony's fondest memories are picnicking with his folks in the countryside and camping with his pop, and he's always daydreaming out loud to Johnny about moving there. But Johnny's never been a country-boy at heart. His urban delinquency is made more conspicuous when set against the flannel-clad, church-going farm boys. Adults around these parts get the wild recklessness of cowboys. In fact, they're proud of them. But a tough city kid is looked at with nothing but suspicion.

Here, Johnny's black hair, black eyes, and olive skin stand out in the increasing sea of blue-eyed, sunburnt blonds. One time, Johnny got roped into going on a crazy road trip with Two-Bit, who was looking for some girl he'd met who lived about an hour away. It was the one and only time Johnny had ever ventured out of his neighborhood. On the way home, they'd stopped at a country store. Two-Bit was inside, robbing the place like there was no tomorrow, while Johnny went to take a drink from a water fountain outside. But before he could lean over and take a drink, an old farmer interrupted by asking him if he had "any spic" in him. And he said, in a no-nonsense voice, that the fountain was for whites only, and told him that if Johnny didn't like that, it was his store and his rules, and no goddamn government was going to tell him otherwise.

No one had ever questioned Johnny about his race before, and he was so humiliated he didn't answer or take a drink. His throat was dry the whole ride home, and while he couldn't bring himself to tell Two-Bit what happened, he was secretly glad Two-Bit lifted six packs of cigarettes, four candy bars, one deck of cards, two lighters, and for some unexplainable reason, a plastic box of doe urine. Johnny didn't even know people sold that kind of junk.

Johnny doesn't like horses either. The way Soda goes on and on about them, you'd think they were sweet, faithful little puppy dogs, instead of these enormous creatures fully capable of stampeding you to death at will, with eyes on the sides of their heads like they're constantly spying on you, and a big mouthful of dangerous teeth. He's only ever been on a horse once, when he was fourteen. Some rich guy had hired Dally to break a particularly ornery new pony of his, who bucked at anyone who even stepped too close. It was a Thoroughbred or something, Johnny doesn't remember. But whatever type of horse Dal was working with, he was real proud. The two of them had been hanging out when Dally invited him along to the stable to show off. He'd been working with the horse for some time, and by Dally's analysis, the stallion was "mostly tamed" by that point. In fact, he couldn't understand why the rich guy was still paying for his services, as the horse "only tried to buck him off twice in the past three days" and would let "most" people pet him without biting.

When they got there, Dally had the brilliant idea he was going to teach Johnny how to ride. Because Johnny was small, Dally decided he'd "make a perfect jockey for a racing horse." Johnny said all the cowboys he'd seen were big guys, but Dally said rodeo was different than racing. And because he didn't want Dally to realize how scared he was, he agreed to get on.

That was a big mistake.

When the horse threw them, Johnny came away with a torn shoulder, a sprained wrist, and whiplash. Dally, who rolled out of the throw, came away unemployed.

Johnny cringes as he watches the last of the bull riders, a new guy, get thrown within four seconds to a mixture of cheers and boos. He knows how to fall, though, and rodeo assistants jump to the rescue, pulling the raging bull away, grabbing the cowboy up to his feet as he pushes them off in embarrassed frustration, his whole right side from his chin to the spur of his boot layered with mud, like a thick, uneven wad of icing on a hard, unappetizing cake, the deep ridges of his brown leather hat obviously squashed flat when it gets picked up. Dally's event–bareback bronco–is up next.

Johnny watches the next few jockeys with increasing anticipation, knowing that any minute now, Dal will be next. Soda, who's sitting next to him, keeps vocalizing his admiration of the horses, as if the riders didn't even exist. "Would you look at that coat, Johnnycake? I ain't never seen such a beautiful pony!" Johnny catches Steve's customary bitter frown curl into a corner smile at Soda's childish excitement. "Sure wish I could risk the injury to ride again," Soda adds softly. And Steve goes back to frowning.

Johnny quickly checks to make sure Ponyboy hasn't heard, and fortunately, Two-Bit is telling him a story that ain't exactly age-appropriate, keeping him distracted. They all know that if their folks hadn't died, and if Darry didn't rely on Soda's income at the DX to keep the family afloat, he'd be out there today, risking his neck to ride saddle bronc like the reckless kid he used to be. Even if Soda's didn't give up college and football and his shot at getting out of this place like Darry did, he still gave up something of himself. A warm sadness fills Johnny when he realizes how much Pony's older brothers look out for him. Nothing bad will ever happen to Pony again, Johnny thinks. Not when he has Darry and Soda. And not as long as he's around, either.

"Dally's up next," Two-Bit says. Johnny finds his fingers in his mouth to bite off a hangnail, and he remembers he's trying to quit that habit, so he reaches for a cigarette instead. He lifted a pack earlier in the day, so he's replenished his stash until at least the end of the night.

Dallas is stubbornly honest about riding those ponies, and that's what bothers Johnny. The Slash J gives him a pretty lousy fixed rate, especially for the prize cash Dally usually makes for them with his winnings. And Dallas sure could make a lot of cash quick by deliberately getting thrown and placing bets on himself. Most people knowing Dally would expect that from him. But no. It's a matter of pride for Dally that he clings on to whatever raging, violent wild beast he gets to the last bitter second. That he beats his record each time he goes up. Johnny's been to enough of these weekend rodeo circuits to know Dally's pattern. When he's done, and his time is announced, he smirks with cocky indifference at the admiration of the cheering audience and manly backslaps of the older rodeo clowns. Afterwards, when everybody's ordering rounds and celebrating, Dally openly flirts with multiple women at the same time, sometimes causing bar fights with jealous boyfriends, or between two greaser girls battling out with verbal nastiness as to who he belongs to for the night. And there's _always _a fight if Sylvia is there, usually sparked by one of them deliberately picking up somebody else in front of the other when they're on a "break." Dally can't go anywhere without forcing his presence on everybody else around, without strutting sluggishly like he owns the world but doesn't care. And while a part of Johnny's blood courses with the thrill of the ride, he can't push back the fear in the back of his mind that one of these days, Dally's gonna break his back.

Dally's up. He feels Ponyboy grab his arm in excitement. Ponyboy used to watch Soda by peeking through his fingers. Johnny understands the instinct, but he keeps his cool, concentrating on the sensation of smoking so he doesn't have too think too deeply about his anxiety. Despite the fact they're pretty far back in the bleachers, Johnny tries to lean in close on focus on Dally's face. Even from here, Johnny can see his wild, reckless look of pure bliss. Dally's one hand is white-knuckled in a mane-hold, but he's swinging his other arm up in the air in careless, ecstatic circles as he's erratically jerked back and forth in every direction. The horse is bucking its legs violently, rearing up on its hind legs so that it stands almost vertical, kicking and thrusting with all of its might in an effort to force Dally off, and all Dally can do is shout a rebel yell at the top of his lungs, his back arching and contracting, balancing himself against the extreme movements of the horse. Johnny's so caught up in the magnetism of it that he forgets to be afraid. His heart is racing in anticipation when Dally is finally thrown. He rolls out of the fall, far away from the horse, and stands up. He doesn't even address the wild cheers of the audience. He's got that familiar, arrogant look on his face as he searches through the faces of the crowd to find his buddies, nods in their direction, and hitches his thumbs through his belt loops as he walks out of the arena.

#

Saddle bronc is next, and Dally's making his way through the crowd in the stands, accepting the praise of vaguely familiar strangers with a causal shrug until he reaches the gang. He settles in next to Two-Bit. "Sure glad you didn't break your neck out there," Two-Bit says as a greeting. "I've got some plans with a blonde later tonight."

"Yeah, good job, Dally," Pony says.

"It was nothing, kid," Dally preens.

"Real gorgeous horse you got, too," Soda leans over and shouts.

Johnny is sitting too far away to say anything to Dally without having to lean over Ponyboy and Two-Bit and shout over the noise of the crowd. So he swings his legs under the bleachers and hopes he'll get a chance to congratulate him later on in the evening.

"Hey, Pony, duck," Dally says. Pony gives him a questioning look as he crouches down. Dally takes off his cowboy hat, squints his eyes, and aims, tossing it in Johnny's direction while he's looking at his feet. Johnny reaches up in surprise, feeling the teetering of the hat as it lands on his head. It slides down along the grease of his hair until it settles, the brim stopped across his eyes where it cuts his vision in half along a horizontal line. The only bit of Johnny's face showing beneath the hat is the tip of his nose and his bruised grin.

He slides it toward the back of his head so he can see, and smiles in Dally's direction. Dally's already talking to the stranger next to him, though. From the sound that carries over, it sounds an awful lot like bragging.

"You sure make a strange-looking cowboy, Johnnycake," Two-Bit says.

"I think it suits him," Pony says, immediately coming to Johnny's defense. Johnny knows Ponyboy's just being nice. He's ready to bet he looks ridiculous right now. And the hat kind of smells, too. A lot like sweat, a little like leather, a little like manure. But Johnny doesn't care. He's proud to wear it.

The evening is going great. In fact, Johnny's having such a good time that in retrospect, he should have known better. The whole gang (except Darry, who's at work) is together, laughing and making jokes, and getting into the excitement. And Soda keeps going on about horses in the way Steve goes on about cars. But all those feelings of carelessness and content go away the moment the first girl up for barrel racing is announced.

#

Not many Socs go to these type of events. The Socs who are horse people tend to gravitate towards race tracks and polo teams and steeplechases. They prefer English riding style over Western, breeches and velvet blazers over denim and tasseled suede. But barrel racing is respectable enough, in Tulsa at least, for their girls. Johnny wonders if the standards are even stricter when you get closer to the coast and up north. He's heard Socs are even more Socy in that part of the country, if that's possible. For the first time ever, he wishes it were the same here.

"Hey, I think that girl's a cheerleader at our school," Ponyboy says to Johnny. "She's kinda cute," he adds, in a low voice so Two-Bit doesn't hear and tease him about it. "Sure wish girls like that would talk to me." Unlike Dally (and most of the cowboys here), who rides on commission for somebody else, this girl is riding her own horse.

She's small, and her bobbed dark hair is curled neatly under her chin, the wiry muscles of her legs gripping the saddle as her horse trots into the arena. When the whistle blows, her hair flies back against the wind as she kicks off. She looks tuff and adorable and athletic all at once, leaning forward, her hands on the reigns, the movements so quick and fluid it's impossible to tell where she ends and her horse begins. Her mare's legs are a blur as the two nimbly dodge the obstacles in unison. When she reaches the finish line, Marcia dismounts, her leg swinging easily over the saddle, her jump-off cheerful and bouncy. She waves to the crowd. Someone whistles. It's the sort of loud, obnoxious whistle that can only be done standing, with two fingers in the mouth. Against his better judgment, Johnny finds himself searching the stands in the direction of the whistle, and sure enough, there is Randy, on his feet, whistling and waving to his girl. Bob's standing up beside him, helping cheer her on. Johnny catches the glisten of a pewter flask in his hand.

#

He spends the rest of the evening mindlessly watching the remaining events while he imagines various endings to an altercation between them. Maybe Randy will push him off a stool as they're hanging out at the bar, or shove him at the jukebox, or maybe Ponyboy will accidentally bump into Bob because he never looks where he's going, and cause all of them to go at it, or maybe Randy will assume he's there because of Dally and seek him out for a fight. None of that happens.

But Johnny is keenly, uncomfortably aware of their proximity as he makes his way to Two-Bit's car with the rest of the gang (except Dally, who's gone home with Buck). The Socs are a few paces to the left and behind them, and even if he couldn't hear their conversation (a drunkenly confused debate about the symbolic meaning of the cult in that summer Beatles flick), he could feel the threat of their presence. He always feels it.

Johnny gets a full look at them as he leans against the car, waiting for his buddies to climb inside and choose their seats first. Randy is wearing a Christmas-green sweater that's tied around his shoulders, and his taupe-colored pants have creased press lines in them, just like his father's.

"Hey David," Bob says to a Soc who's jogging up to them.

"Hey yourself."

"Didn't know you were here. Thought we were the only normal ones around," Bob says. He slings his arm around his girlfriend–the looker with the red hair–another barrel racer.

"Man, this place is filled with nothing but hicks and greasers. Hey, what happened to your face, Randy?" David asks.

Marcia is leaning her back against Randy's chest, and he pulls aways and throws a few mock, demonstrative punches at her arm. Marcia laughs as she swats him away. "Got drunk the other night and jumped a greaser," Randy explains. "The little hood turned out to be pretty feisty." He laughs.

Johnny stares at the exchange. Stares at Randy laughing it off, stares at Randy goofing with his rich friends–the same friends he complained were shallow only one night ago–like all is right with the world. Maybe for Randy, it is. Randy doesn't even see him staring.

"Johnny." Ponyboy taps his shoulder. "You mind getting in first? You said you'd take the middle."

Johnny pulls his eyes away from the Socs. He's just a Soc. Randy's nothing more than that to him. He slides into the car, relieved to be blocked from view, safely guarded between the Curtis brothers. He doesn't mind the middle.

TBC


	30. Chapter 30

When Monday rolls around and Johnny heads to school, he stops short when he sees Randy in the halls, joking around with Bob, Marcia curled under his arm. Johnny takes a few seconds to gather his wits and passes them. Randy doesn't stop him. He doesn't call to him. He doesn't trip him. Nothing happens. Later, he walks by Randy in the cafeteria, he's hunching down, shoulders pulled in, and speeding up just in case, but still nothing happens. And finally, right before the bell rings at the end of the day, Johnny's stuck sitting two seats over from Randy in the office. (Randy was there to grab a permission slip for something sports-related, Johnny had been called in to explain another lateness.) And still, nothing happens. They don't even look at each other.

On Wednesday, all the school can talk about the public displays of affection between Randy and Marcia during Tuesday's football game with their rival school. During half-time, after the cheerleaders' dance, Randy ran up the stands, still wearing in his uniform, and dipped Marcia, dressed in her pleated cheerleading skirt, in a kiss. Onlookers whistled and cheered them, and their mascot, the Redskin Brave, pretended to swoon. (Or so Johnny heard; he stopped going to football games when Darry graduated.) It was like a scene from some dumb teenybopper movie. And even though Prom isn't until June, in the hallways Johnny overheard two Socy girls discussing whether or not they thought Randy and Marcia or Bob and some redhead whose name Johnny forgets are going to be crowned king and queen.

Johnny wishes he could close his eyes and erase Randy from his life. Even if it means he never experienced what it was like to feel smart, to feel like he could learn something, even if it means those moments when Randy made him feel wanted and special are gone forever. But he can't do that. There are vestiges of Randy everywhere, from hearing his name mentioned over the loudspeaker for winning the game, to his English teacher passing out Xerox copies of Randy's essay as a sample.

Randy and Johnny haven't locked eyes once.

#

On Wednesday night, Johnny and Dally are bumming around together when they run into Tim Shepard at the five-and-dime. Dally's handing over fifty cents for two cherry-flavored pops. He passes a glass over to Johnny, and the ring on his finger (off Sylvia's neck yet again, the one he rolled a drunk to acquire) latches onto the frayed seam of Shepard's leather jacket as Shepard approaches from the side. Johnny bites his lips as he watches the two hoods awkwardly untangle themselves. It doesn't exactly look tuff.

"Cherry?" Shepard asks mockingly.

Dally slurps loudly though his straw, unabashed. Then he lets out a thunderous burp, opening his mouth wider than necessary. Johnny smothers an embarrassed laugh.

"I haven't seen in you in about five days, Winston. Thought you might'a been hauled in or something."

"I ain't attached at your hip," Dally says.

"Didn't say you were. _Him_, on the other hand…" Tim rebuts, eying Johnny with disdain. Johnny is suddenly aware of how stupid he must look, caught with a straw in his mouth, sipping a pop. He stops drinking and fingers the moisture on the outside of the glass uncomfortably. It's a normal enough activity, but the scornful way Tim is looking at him makes him feel like he's somehow doing it wrong, or that drinking a soda is the most childish thing on the planet. He wishes it were a beer in his hand instead.

"I gotta favor to ask you, a job tonight you'd be good for, but maybe…"

"But maybe what?" Dally asks, sharp and accusatory. He slams his pop down on the counter. "Don't beat around the bush."

"Maybe you're too busy babysitting is all." Tim lifts up his hands, palms out, feigning innocence.

Johnny's face burns red and he's about to defend himself when Dallas cuts in. "Johnny's sixteen. I ain't babysitting!" Dally's sudden outburst (and the hardening of his jaw after he realizes he's just shouted) lets Johnny know that Tim's insult has embarrassed Dally at least much as it has embarrassed Johnny. Probably more: it ain't exactly tough for Dal to spend all his time hanging around a relatively unknown, law-abiding greaser.

"I got a kid brother and a kid sister, so Lord knows I know what babysitting looks like. 'Course, Curly and Angela are younger than him, but they sure act _old enough_ to take care of themselves." Tim gives Johnny a pointed look.

"What do you want me for, Shepard?" Dally's arms are crossed. So are Tim's.

"Alley by the train tracks. You know the one. One-fifteen tonight. Bring a weapon. We're gonna smash up Charlie's place something good. Figured that's right up your alley. But you know, if you're too busy with the kid…"

"I'll come too," Johnny volunteers. He can't let Dally back out of this for his sake. He can't let Dally's reputation suffer by association. He gives Tim his best tuff scowl. "No sweat."

Tim bites back a feline smile. "No sweat?"

Johnny shrugs. Dally's glowering at Johnny like he's furious with him. He probably is: he's caught between forbidding Johnny to go (thereby publicly humiliating both of them) and allowing him to come along (when he knows Johnny'd be getting in over his head).

"What's the matter, Winston?" Tim starts laughing.

"Nothing," Dally bites. Dally and Tim are always on each other's backs. Dally's slashed Tim's tires more times than Johnny can count. Tim's socked his jaw and put him in the hospital. But through it all, there's always been something of a begrudging bond, something like respect between them. Friendship, even. And for the first time, Johnny sees genuine anger in Dally's eyes aimed in Tim's direction.

"Think he's good for it? Junior ain't gonna back out on us?" Tim asks.

Dally gives Johnny a cold, analytical stare. "Nah. He's good."

Sure, Dally'll lift a pack of cigarettes from a store, or mouth off to a beat cop, or slash a few tires when Johnny's around, but he's never brutalized someone just for kicks, or mugged somebody at knifepoint, or hot-wired a car in Johnny's presence, though Johnny knows he's done all of those things. Normally, Dally keeps his worst crimes separate from the life he leads with the gang.

That's about to change.

"Enjoy your cherry Coke," Tim says as he leaves the store, pocketing a Mars Bar.

#

Tim Shepard is giving Johnny the look that Steve gives Ponyboy when Soda asks him along. Johnny doesn't blame him. Dally, Tim, Johnny, and two of the thugs from Tim's outfit are skulking around a back alley by the train tracks: he doesn't belong with this crowd.

Tim, Dally, and another boy are carrying baseball bats, and the third guy has a pool stick. No one offers Johnny an introduction, so he mentally dubs the other two boys Pool Stick and Bat. Earlier in the night, Dally had casually handed Johnny a busted-up pipe; it's sitting in his hands now, weighty and unwanted. They're waiting. Tim wants revenge on a shopkeep who caught him lifting a girly magazine and humiliated him in front of all these middle-class customers. The shop's a few blocks over, and another boy is acting as a lookout, timing the patrolman who works this beat so they know when the coast is clear. His signal is a whistle that's not too different from Johnny's own gang's whistle. They're going to smash in the shop windows and knock over the merchandise.

Johnny's watches as Dallas casually pats the wide end of the bat against his palm, perhaps not even aware he's doing it. His tow-colored hair is messier than usual, sticking out in natural, ungreased tufts, framing his hard, bitter face like a misplaced halo. Dally catches Johnny's stare. He winks and grins, a mouthful of teeth. The other two boys look alert and anxious, but Shepard's wearing the same feral, excited look as Dal. They're in their element. And that's when Johnny realizes he really shouldn't be there. He's trying to come up with an excuse to get out of this, when the look-out boy gives them the signal.

#

It's dark except for a street lamp the next block over, and the street is derelict. The five of them stand in front of the store, waiting in heightened anticipation for whoever will be brave (and stupid) enough to start the mayhem. Johnny feels like he might have a heart attack. He's broken the law plenty of times, but never anything this serious before.

"Wait!" Johnny hisses.

"What?" Tim asks, hyper-alert. "You see the cop?" The boys grow tense. Dallas looks over his shoulder.

"No. I'm just...do you really think we should be doing this?" Johnny whispers.

Johnny cringes as he catches the look on Dally's face. There's no question: he's just embarrassed him real bad.

"Told you the kid would bail," Tim mutters to Dally under his breath.

Dally shakes his head and lets out a controlled sigh. He doesn't say anything in Johnny's defense, but he doesn't openly agree with Tim, either.

"What, are you scared?" Pool Stick asks Johnny, pounding the pool stick menacingly against his palm. "What a little baby."

"I ain't scared," Johnny protests. "I just don't fancy getting hauled in is all." Johnny looks at the carefully painted letters on the window of the shop, reading _Charlie's_. He is scared of getting caught, but that's not the only reason Johnny doesn't want to go through with this. Unlike most boys he knows–angry, bitter boys who invite destruction because it gives them attention, because it proves something–Johnny has no desire to wreck Charlie's stuff, whoever Charlie may be. It's not right.

"Aw, looks like the little girl's afraid," Pool Stick mocks. "You a girl?" He pushes Johnny's chest. "You a faggot?"

Dallas smashes the bat against the long window of the store door. He does this over and over until the only remaining glass clings to the inner edge of the window frame in small, stubborn pieces; then he grabs the guy harassing Johnny and shoves him straight through the opening. He lands with a thud on the floor of the shop entrance, on top of thousands of minuscule glass shards.

"Dallas, what the hell man! Are you crazy?" Tim shouts.

Pool Stick picks himself up. He can't be seriously injured because he's cursing up a storm and threatening to kill Dally in a number of horrifying ways. Johnny finds himself reaching instinctually for Dally's arm, but Dally pushes him aside in irritation.

Now that the destruction has started, Tim and the other guy start beating in the windows, and then Dally jumps in through one once enough glass is cleared. Tim's at his heels and then the other boy follow suit. Johnny stands outside on the side walk, his heel hitting a fire hydrant as he backs up. He's stuck there, immobile, until Dally's voice brings him back to the present.

"Come on, kid, what are you waiting for? Get in here before somebody sees you!" Johnny bounds through the window, nicking his palm with glass.

Dallas and the thug with the pool stick duke it out while Tim and the other boy loot the place, taking what they want, destroying everything else. Johnny watches as magazine racks, displays of candy, and shelves of canned goods go tumbling all around him. He drops the pipe, backs up into the corner of the store, and crosses his arms over his stomach, watching the events unfold as if it is no more real than a scene in a movie. Dally's fight must be over, because when Johnny's eyes shift to the back of the store, he catches him leisurely pouring a pop for himself behind the counter, perfectly comfortable in the mayhem around him, like he's hell's official soda jerk or something.

And then, there's the sound of police sirens, and everybody runs.

#

Johnny's out of breath; he's backed up against a chain-link fence, barbed wire at the top. He had another one of his coughing fits, and he's not a fast runner, anyway. It's just him and the cop, face-to-face, three feet between them. Everybody else got away.

The cop's heater is pointed directly at his chest, and Johnny's eyes are wide in fear, his heart pounding. His hands are hidden behind his back, and his fingers pull at the chains of the fence in anxiety.

"Put your hands where I can see them," the cop commands.

Even though Johnny hears the cop and is trying to obey, he finds doesn't know how to make his brain tell his body what to do. It's impossible to move.

"Put your hands where I can see them, or I'll shoot."

"Don't shoot." It's Dallas. He sounds so deliberately calm that Johnny knows he's actually panicked. "Don't shoot."

The cop, his gun still trained on Johnny, turns his head to see Dally jogging up behind them. Dally puts his hands in the air. "I'm not here to start trouble." He jogs up further so that the cop can see the two of them at the same time, trying to prove his point.

"Somehow, Winston, I don't believe you."

"I mean it!" Dally insists.

"Stop where you are, put your face to the ground, and interlock your fingers above your head."

Dally folds his hands behind his head. He makes it look casual, in the way people hold their head back when they lounge. Dally kneels down so he's on his knees.

"Johnny," Dally warns, "put your hands above your head. Show the cop you ain't carrying. That's all he wants to know."

Johnny has been so focused on Dally he had already forgotten about the cop's orders. He holds out his trembling hands for the officer to see.

"I said put your face to the ground, Winston."

Dally rolls his eyes; he lies down on his stomach in the filth of the alley.

"Okay, kid. You too. Interlock your hands above your head and put your face to the ground."

Johnny gulps. "Okay." His voice is trembling, maybe even worse than his hands.

"Don't tell me okay," the cop commands. "Just do it."

And then the officer's pressing his face roughly into the pavement, and Johnny feels the cold, sharp snap of handcuffs trapping in his wrists. They're on so tightly that in seconds he starts to feel the numbness of his circulation cutting off.

The cop glides his hands up and down Johnny's body, and Johnny recoils. Suddenly, he's back at the lot, the Socs surrounding him. But this time, his hands are locked in a steel jaw trap, and he can't defend himself. "No," Johnny gasps. He's instinctually squirming away from the cop's touch, and while he knows he should lie still and comply or he could get killed, he's too scared to do so.

"Calm down, kid." For a second, the cop's voice softens. "I'm just checking for contraband."

The cop's hand is on his ass, and Johnny tries to shift away as he reaches in his pocket. "Stop," Johnny whimpers. And then he realizes why the policeman is doing it when the assuring weight of his switchblade is suddenly gone.

"Of course," he snaps, "why I am not surprised? Goddamn hoodlums keep getting younger and younger."

Johnny stares at the gravel, trying to focus on how it looks and how it feels against his face, so he doesn't have to experience what's going on. He hears the flick of his blade being opened. "What is this? Six inches? Christ. You got anything else on you?"

"Na-no," Johnny says. He feels the cop's hands back on him again, twisting his ankles to check under his high-tops, jerking at his jeans jacket and prodding his chest and his sides. He doesn't want to be touched anymore. He wants it to end. Finally, it does. He doesn't understand how Dallas can handle getting arrested so often. It's making him a nervous wreck.

When the cop makes his way over to Dally, he asks, "Am I'm gonna need to call back-up?"

From the odd angle on the cement, Johnny catches Dally grinning at the man like he's having the time of his life. "Scared of me, Officer Dipshit?"

"I don't want trouble."

Dally catches Johnny staring at him. "You won't get it. I got nothing on me and I ain't gonna put up a fight tonight."

"That's a first," the cop mutters.

He frisks Dally with twice the roughness he had used on Johnny, but he comes back with nothing. Johnny guesses Dally had a chance to get rid of anything he'd been carrying before he backtracked to find him.

He hauls Johnny up by the cuffs, Johnny can feel the abrasions forming on his wrists from the force, and as he's jerked up he feels a hot pain shoot up under his arm: his muscle's just been pulled. "Stay put." He makes his way over to Dally, but Dally's already standing by the time he's ready to get him up. The cop frowns.

"You two come with me." He grabs Dally in one arm, and Johnny in the other, and they walk together like that, like they're in some twisted version of _The_ _Wizard of Oz_.

Dally leans over the beer gut of the cop to get a good look at Johnny. "Don't worry kid, he's a nice one."

"Keep your fucking mouth shut, Winston," the cop says.

#

Johnny's cheek is lying against the cool metal of the cop car as the officer bags his knife as evidence. He's making a note of it in a ringed binder, when he asks, "What's your name, kid?"

Johnny looks to Dally for reassurance and Dally nods. "Johnny Cade."

"Age?"

"Thirteen," Dallas answers for him before he can say a word. Johnny glares at Dally. He knows he looks it, and he knows it might buy him some sympathy, but he really hates that Dally said that. It's even worse that the cop doesn't question it. He just nods and tuts and finishes writing his sentence.

The cop opens the passenger door and tosses the bag of evidence and the binder on the seat. He turns to Johnny. "What's a sweet-faced baby like you carrying around a switchblade and hanging around a criminal like Dallas Winston for? You playing gangster or something? This ain't a game of cops and robbers, son. I thought you had a gun hidden behind your back. I almost killed you tonight."

"Dally's my friend."

"Your friend, huh? Would you like me to read you his record? That might change your mind. He's done some pretty bad things." He turns to Dally. "What is this, Winston? The fourth time I've personally arrested you?"

"Fifth," Dally answers with a smirk.

"And that is exactly the path you're on, sonny, if you keep spending time with delinquents like him. I think a long night in jail and a little introduction to the system is going to do you good. Steer you in the right direction."

"I'm sorry," Johnny says. "I know it was wrong to mess that place up."

Dallas starts cussing under his breath, and Johnny hears the word _idiot_ thrown in there.

Then the cop stares at Johnny for a second. "You're _sorry_?" he asks, incredulous. "Never thought I'd see the day when a street thug apologized."

"That's cause he ain't a street thug," Dally interjects.

"This your first time getting picked up?" the cop asks, ignoring Dally.

Johnny nods.

"Let me give you hint, okay? Don't admit to the crime." He says it kinda annoyed, like he's explaining something Johnny should already know. "I haven't even started questioning you yet and I already have a confession. I like to earn my paycheck," he adds sarcastically.

"I didn't think about it that way," Johnny says to the gutter he's standing over. "I just felt bad for what I did."

The policeman opens the back passenger door of the cop car. "Get in." He pushes Johnny inside–though not very hard this time–and Johnny scoots to the other end. "You too, Winston. You know the drill."

"You didn't read me my Miranda Rights," Dally says as the cop pushes his head down and forces him inside.

"Screw your Miranda Rights. And what the fuck were you thinking, dragging a little kid like this into your world of trouble? Jesus, Winston, don't you ever think?" He slams the door.

"I ain't a little kid!" Johnny shouts.

When the cop gets behind the wheel, Dallas kicks the back of his seat. "Come on, man. You said it yourself. Johnny didn't do nothing, okay? He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was tagging along with us. He didn't know what we were gonna mess that place up." Dally pauses. "Shit."

"Is that your official statement?" the cop snickers.

"Fuck you," Dally says.

"That language isn't going to do you any favors."

"Hypocrite," Dally mutters. And then, "Look, just listen, okay? Johnny's a good kid. The cooler ain't a place for good kids. We both know that."

The cop angles the rearview mirror so he can get a good look at Dallas. "I would never have believed it." He actually sounds shocked. "Even the notorious Dallas Winston has a soft spot." He starts laughing. A real, deep laugh, like it's the best joke he ever heard. "Next time I turn around I'm gonna find out you like sunsets and rainbows and long walks on the beach!"

"Laugh all you want," Dally mutters. "You know I'm talking sense. Just leave the damn kid alone."

"I'll be fine," Johnny whispers to Dally.

"What's your address, boy?" the cop asks.

"What?" Johnny asks.

The cop sighs. "I asked for your address. I'm going to let you go. But not before I have a little talk with your parents. See if a little parental guidance and discipline can put a curb to this behavior."

Johnny's face goes white. "No."

"Don't you tell me no," the police officer says, suddenly infuriated. "I'm being the nice guy here, doing you a favor and letting you off with a warning. Don't you dare try to tell me how to do my job."

"Please, just send me to jail." Johnny's eyes are watering up. As scared as he is of law enforcement and getting locked up, at least if he spends the night in jail, Dally will be there. And when they go to court to be sentenced, they'll be put in the same detention center. Later, Johnny will figure out a way to keep the news from his folks. But if he gets sent home tonight and the cop speaks with them, he doesn't know what they'll do to him. He doesn't want to know.

The officer looks in the rearview mirror again, this time at Johnny, and frowns. He bangs on the steering wheel. "Let me guess. Trouble at home?"

Johnny shakes his head no, his bangs spilling over his eyes, which for some reason only confirms the officer's suspicions. "God, if I have to intervene with one more broken family I swear..." he grumbles. "Kids like you are a dime a dozen. Your pop beat you, is that it? Should've guessed by your face." He's referring the bruises Randy left him, which are green and yellow and only half-swollen by now.

"Naw," Johnny mumbles. "Nobody hits me."

"Yeah, he does." Dally's voice is hard. "He beats him to the curb at least once a week. And no, we don't want your goddamn pity-party. But what you can do is drop Johnny off about a block from his place so his folks don't know he was picked up, and then circle around to make sure he gets in okay. You got it?"

"Winston, I do not like your attitude."

"What's new?" Dally kicks at the police officer's seat again. The cop shakes his head, more annoyed than angry. "Do you want me to add assaulting a police officer to your offenses of the night?"

"That wasn't no assault!" Dally protests.

"Kid, I asked for your address. We'll leave your parents out of it."

And Dally got his way as usual, even with the police, who hate him.

#

The policeman stops the car on the side of the road, about three blocks away from Johnny's house. As he's taking the cuff keys off his belt, Johnny mumbles, "Do you think maybe..."

But he bites his lip and decides against asking.

"Well, speak up," he answer gruffly; he turns the key, and the cuffs are off.

Johnny rubs his wrists, one after the other. "Can I have my knife back?"

"You are aware a knife of that type is illegal to possess in the state of Oklahoma, are you not?"

"These streets ain't exactly safe," Johnny mumbles. "And I ain't exactly a big guy. I swear I keep it just for show. Please."

"And it looks I ain't gonna be around to defend him for a while!" Dallas calls from inside the car.

The policeman glares at Dally and then sighs at Johnny. "I'm getting way too old for this shit." He doesn't look that old to Johnny. Just tired.

The policeman reaches over the still open driver's door to the plastic bag of evidence sitting on the shotgun seat. He opens the bag and hands Johnny his knife. When he feels the comforting weight of the blade in his palm, he looks up at the policeman, eyes catching the name tag pinned to his chest.

"Be careful with that." There's something familiar about his tone Johnny can't quit pinpoint, until suddenly he knows exactly who he sounds like. Mr. Curtis. "It's a weapon, not a toy."

"Thanks, Officer Thompson." He pockets the knife, hoping that name didn't sound as awkward as it felt in his mouth. He's looking at the ground when he says, "You don't think...I mean... are you gonna let Dal go, too?"

Officer Thompson throws his head back and laughs again. "God, I needed a good laugh." He pats Johnny on the back, hard and manly. Almost approvingly. "You take care of yourself, kid. No drugs, no drinking, no stealing, you hear?" Johnny nods. "And do me a favor and stop hanging around thugs like Dallas Winston."

Johnny doesn't even register that last bit of the cop's advice. He's so concerned for Dally in the back of the car, headed off to the slammer yet again, that he peeks his face over the officer's shoulder to get one last look at him. Dally flips the cop and Johnny off, smiling and laughing while he does it.

"Be careful, Dally," Johnny warns, his words slow and cautious to keep from revealing how upset he is.

"Be careful yourself," Dally says, nodding in his direction. "Hey, pig, I'm getting bored in here! Come on and lock me up before I die of old age," Dally shouts. He kicks the driver's seat over and over.

Officer Thompson shakes his head. "I don't know why I even bother."

TBC


	31. Chapter 31

Three months.

Dallas isn't going to be let out until February. Johnny kicks at the side of the Curtis house and then jerks his leg back when he realizes what he's doing. He turns around sheepishly and gives Darry a guilty, fearful look. Darry frowns at him and Johnny kneels down in the freshly raked grass and begins wiping off the dirt smudge that the bottom of his shoe left on the wall. He feels a hand on his shoulder, a gentle squeeze, and when he looks up again, Darry says, "Don't worry about it, kid." Johnny stands up. He swipes the dirt at the knees of his jeans and shoves his hands in his pockets.

"Ninety days in county," Steve repeats, shaking his head in disappointment. It's been three days. It didn't take long for the judge to decide that one.

"That's not fair," Johnny says bitterly, the words escaping him before he can hold them back. His hands inside his pockets squeeze, but there's not enough space to make for fists. "Should be illegal to keep him in there that long." He kicks at the dirt this time.

"Dally's in there because he did something illegal, Johnny," Darry explains with patience.

"I know, but, but...three months is a long time." His voice wavers off at the end of that sentence. None of the boys know about his involvement. Dallas hadn't mentioned it at the trial, and Tim and his outfit aren't exactly the type to go bragging about what they've done or rat him out, not when the police are still looking for the other culprits.

"He broke into a store and looted half the merch," Steve announces, as if they didn't already know. "With his record, three months is a godsend. At least he took the plea bargain and got it dropped to a misdemeanor, but damn, Dallas never uses his brains."

Johnny's never talked back to one of the boys, but he can't let Steve get away with insulting Dallas like that. Not when the only reason Dally got caught in the first place was because he came back for him. "Least he's got brains, Randle," Johnny shoots with malice.

"Least I've got balls."

"Yeah, blue balls." It's Pony. He's stepped between the two of them, and now a part of Johnny regrets not keeping his mouth shut. The two of them will use any excuse to insult each other, and Johnny hates it when his buddies argue. He hates it even more than he hates being caught between his folks fighting.

"Watch it, Pony," Darry warns. "And who the hell taught you to speak like that? Do you even know what that means?"

Pony's flushing a dark red now. "I know what it means!" But he insists with such intense conviction that it is obvious he doesn't know exactly what it means beyond the fact that it sounds vaguely sexual and insulting. Johnny can see the look of relief cross Darry's face. He guesses, even if Pony is well aware of the basics and probably a lot more (considering the fact that he hangs around the gang and his older brother is the most sought after greaser in town), Darry hasn't given him _the talk_ yet.

"I'm sorry, Steve," Johnny offers. "I'm just upset about Dal."

"It's okay," says Steve. He doesn't apologize, but he doesn't need to. Johnny started it, and anybody with a modicum of sense knows not to start with Steve, whose temper rivals Dally's. And Johnny can shrug off being insulted. That's nothing new for him.

Ponyboy wraps his arm around Johnny's shoulder. "Don't worry," he says. "Dal will be out soon, you'll see. He always is. And besides, you know last time he was bragging about how he practically ruled the place."

Johnny swallows, but he doesn't say anything about that. Dally brags about a lot, but it doesn't necessarily mean he's telling the truth. Johnny's heard stories about jail. Stories that make his skin crawl. But he's not going to ruin the illusion for Pony, who takes Dal at his word.

"Look," says Darry, "we're all upset. But Dally's gonna do his time, and when he comes out, we'll throw a party. I'll even let Pony stay up on a school night if he comes back on a school night. How's that?"

"Promise?" Pony asks.

"You got it, little buddy. Now, who's up for some football?"

Darry divides them up: Big Curtis and Little Curtis (Ponyboy is not happy about that descriptor) versus Johnny and Steve. They're short Two-Bit, who's at a party somewhere, and Soda, who's on a date with Sandy, and of course Dallas, so this time the game is even more like a mess of tossing and tackling, with less of a pretense of plays and plots and order than usual.

Johnny likes sports, so long as they're not competitive or taken seriously. Even if he ain't a great runner, and even if he's small enough that the only person he can reasonably tackle is Pony, he always looks forward to a good game of football with his buddies. He likes to run and run until the only thing he can feel is lungs collapsing and his muscles spasming and his legs giving out. He gets that rush where his body exists without his mind, and his normal fears and doubts and self-recriminations disappear underneath the sensation of wind moving against his face, the hard pound of the ball bruising his palms as he catches it, the soreness in his triceps after throwing the ball too forcefully and too fast, over and over again. And he likes the contact, the roughhousing–the tackling and being tackled–best of all. Not because he's a sexual deviant. Johnny knows it has nothing to do with that. He just likes it, in a way he can't describe. Outside of Pony (who's always ready to offer a hug), football is basically the only touching he gets that isn't violent.

A few minutes in, Pony jumps up on Darry's back in an attempt to tackle him (even though they're technically on the same team), and it turns into a makeshift piggyback ride. Ponyboy kicks at him in embarrassment, but Darry doesn't relent. Steve throws the ball in their direction, and after Pony catches it, he tosses over his shoulder towards Johnny. But Johnny doesn't throw it back. Today, he can't find it in himself to enjoy it.

He dropkicks the ball with all the force he can muster, and the ball soars far away, past the onetime merry-go-round with the seats rusted off so sharply it's like a spiked wheel. The ball disappears in the distance under the uncut grass, and Johnny shoves his hands into his pockets. He sighs, and pulls out a cigarette. No one goes to retrieve the ball. All four of them gravitate towards each other, as if the game has naturally ended.

Pony slides off of Darry. His cheeks are flushed and his gleeful, embarrassed grin is replaced with a frustrated sigh. "We're in the middle of playing. Come on, Johnny! You can smoke anytime."

Johnny shrugs. "Guess I don't feel like playing today is all. Sorry to spoil the fun, Pone. I think I'm gonna head home now."

"But Johnny-"

"Leave him be, Pony." Darry's voice is quiet but firm, leaving no room for argument.

Johnny looks away, because he can't stand the worried glances Pony's giving him. He knows why, too. It ain't merely disappointment that the game is over. The two of them passed his house on the walk home from school, and they heard the sound of something being banged around in there, which is never a good sign.

But he just can't goof off with his buddies while Dally's serving time for him. He can't.

#

Johnny stops in his tracks the moment he steps in his front door. It doesn't look like his house. The mess of dirty laundry and knickknacks that clutter the entrance has been cleared away. And the bookcase that had been flipped over about a year ago during one of his father's rages has finally been put upright; dime romances books and back issues of Time magazine are organized on the shelves as if they'd never been disturbed. In fact, a lot of the furniture has been rearranged. That must have been the loud noises he was hearing. And the floor's been vacuumed. Johnny follows the sound of the radio (a barbershop quartet harmonizing a jingle: "You stop pay-ing the elbow tax, when you start clean-ing...with A-Jax!") into the kitchen.

His mom is at the sink, yellow rubber gloves ending at her elbows. She couldn't look more beautiful if they were white silk, and she were wearing a ball gown instead of a food-crusted apron. She hears him enter, looks up at him, and smiles, and Johnny offers a shy smile back. He notices the yellow remnant of a bruises beneath her left eye and feels a twinge of guilt that he wasn't around to stop that. That's the catch in avoiding his home: his old man will swing at her if Johnny ain't around to swing at. And even though when his Ma is drinking she gives as much as she gets, considering the size difference, and the fact that she's a woman and should be protected, it will never be a fair fight.

He hasn't seen the house this clean in–if he can remember correctly–at least two years. And he hasn't seen that sort of smile on her face in maybe an equally long time. There's always ups and downs and lulls and rushes in this house, though. Just usually not as extreme as this one. Sometimes, when his dad has got Jesus back, and both of his folks are making an effort, there's dinner on the table and a lot of talk about changes that are gonna be made. But it never lasts longer than a week, even if every time Johnny convinces himself that _this_ time will be the one to turn their family around for good.

"Found something in your schoolbag." Johnny tenses. Even if he doesn't catch anger in her tone, the words are ominous. He wonders if she's tricking him by acting nice. If she's found something illegal. Maybe one of his buddies left something in there by accident. He wonders if she's already called the cops on him.

His mom turns off the faucet, peels off the rubber gloves, and heads over to the (newly sorted) piles of paperwork on the kitchen table, where she hands him a sheet of paper. It's his quarter report card, handed out shortly before he stopped attending tutoring. It's been sitting squished at the bottom of his schoolbag for these four weeks, but now, the wrinkles have been flattened out.

_English C+_

_American History C-_

_Algebra I B+_

_Earth Science B-_

_Shop A_

"Not bad," she says. She stares at him, but she's not doing the scornful up-and-down that he's accustomed to. It's a judgmental stare, but one in which the judgement's been reserved for a later time, like she's still testing out his worth instead of immediately finding him wanting. He doesn't bother to tell her he's doing significantly worse now. He doesn't want to spoil the moment.

"Well, it's the second time around, so guess I oughta be passing. Gotta be a retard not to," Johnny answers, careful not to accept the near-compliment, offering criticism before she can get to it first.

"Why didn't you tell me you were doing better in school?"

Johnny swallows. She sounds _hurt_. Actually, honestly _hurt_. Johnny can't make sense of it. The same woman who spends every day ignoring his existence, the same woman who–on the rare occasions she bothers to notice he's alive–is keen to remind him how much she wishes he'd never been born and how typical it is that he's grown up to be a useless criminal just like his father and how she can't wait until he gets locked up so the state can pay for him instead of her being forced to fork over all her money to raise him...

He doesn't have an excuse for hiding something he's proud of, except the fact that so long as this accomplishment was private she couldn't find a reason to take that pride away from him. That's not a truth he can share without hurting her further, so he looks down at his feet and shrugs.

"Why don't you talk to me, Johnny?"

Johnny licks his lip. His throat is dry.

"You know..." His mom has that far-away, defeated voice she gets sometimes, when she thinks about the olden days. "...you were a colicky baby. I used to rock you as you screamed and screamed. You never shut up, no matter how hard I tried–bottles and pacifiers and bouncing you on my lap. I used to get so frustrated. All I wanted was peace and quiet, all I wanted was to be left alone, and every hour, all day and all night long, there you were, wailing at the top of your lungs. But ever since you were old enough to talk, you've barely said a word. Funny how things change. Well, I guess it's not funny."

He wonders what she's trying to get at. If it's a round-about apology, or another accusation. He thinks she might be trying to pull words from him, but he doesn't know what words she wants to hear. He doesn't say anything.

"After you were born, the doctor told me I couldn't have any more children," she adds.

Johnny stiffens. That's news for him. It's not something he's ever even guessed at. He has always figured he is an only child because his parents are intelligent enough not to make the same mistake twice. He figured it was a choice. He has to force back a sharp, irrational guilt, and the only way to curb it is to repeat in his mind: _it's not my fault, it's not my fault, it's not my fault_. But it kind of is.

"I used to think that was God's way of punishing me, for having you out of wedlock."

Johnny shoves his hands into his pockets. She's never talked about his baby years before. That's the only blessing that comes with being queer, with being so abnormal he can't even make kids: he's never gonna accidentally knock somebody up. He's never going to be forced to find out he's become his old man.

"Am I..." Johnny struggles with the words. "Do you...do you still think I'm your punishment?"

"Johnny, listen." She takes the report card back in her hand and shakes it in front of him. "This is proof. Proof you can do better." It doesn't escape his notice that she avoids answering his question.

"You've obviously been trying harder. So I'm going to try harder, too. We are going to pull this family together. I mean it. We are. Do you know where your father is right now?" She doesn't say_ 'your father' _in that derisive way he's all too familiar with. She says it with violent admiration, as if recalling long-lost feelings. "He's back at one of those meetings. I think it's going to work this time, Johnny. I really think it will."

Johnny nods. But he's heard this speech before and he doesn't know if he believes her.

"If you could only stop hanging out with those delinquents... Johnny, you're throwing away your life. When I was your age-" But she cuts herself off before she starts the lecture. For as long as Johnny can remember, that has never happened. Maybe at the moment she's too consumed with the memory of the big mistake she made at his age–him–to judge.

Johnny slumps into a seat at the table and pulls his hand through his hair. He's so mixed up. First, Dally's gone and now his Ma is talking to him and actually being kind and he has no idea what to make of it.

"Guess you're not gonna have to worry about that for a while," he mutters. He hates how pathetic he sounds.

"What do you mean?" Her voice is quiet. She takes the seat across from him. She reaches out for his hand, but Johnny intuitively slides it away from her.

"My best friend got locked up," he mumbles into hands. He doesn't know why he tells her. He needs somebody, anybody to talk to right now. And she...she seems to care about him. She really does. "I ain't gonna see him for a couple months."

"Not the little one?"

Johnny shakes his head.

"The mean-looking blond?"

Johnny nods. "Yeah."

"Well, good riddance. You know what Barbara had to say about to me about him when she saw the two of you together?"

"Nothing good, I'm guessing."

His mom gives him a wry look. "If that's how you want to phrase it. He's a criminal, Johnny. A worthless criminal. I'm sick of you wasting your potential by hanging out with white trash thugs-"

"Yeah, well you don't know what he's like around me!" Johnny's words rush out in sudden anger. He doesn't know why he's lashing out when his mom is being so nice, except he can't tolerate anyone insulting Dallas. Not ever. "You have no fucking idea," he continues bitterly, careless of the consequences. "He's a good guy. A good buddy. And he's a thousand times better to me than you've ever been."

She goes white. "Johnny..." she starts warningly. If it's possible, her voice sounds white, too.

"I'm sorry, Ma." But this is not something he can take back. He's essentially pissed on the olive branch she just handed him. "I'm real sorry. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean to yell at you. I didn't mean to swear. I...I just miss him. I don't care that he's a criminal, okay? He's my friend..."

She closes her eyes.

"Am I in trouble?" he asks, voice cracking to a higher pitch on that last word. "I fucked it up again, didn't I?" He holds back from breathing, because he knows if he lets it out, he's going to sob. He won't let himself cry. Not in front of her. In several seconds, he has calmed down enough to trust himself to breathe again. He's always been good at controlling himself.

His Ma doesn't answer him. Instead, she says, "I used to think you were like your father. But you're not. Not at all." That might be the nicest thing she's ever said to him, but there's a tinge of panic in that sentence, and Johnny knows she hadn't meant it as a compliment.

"You're like me. Like I used to be. Wrapped up in somebody else's shit–someone stronger, someone better. Somebody you think is going to save you. Well listen, kiddo, no one's gonna save you. That's not how the world works. And let me tell you something, you have a hell of a lot better than I ever did." And just like that, Johnny can hear the shift in her voice, from loss and regret, to the blaming fury it always returns to. "You are such an ingrate. At least I try for you. You have no idea what the real world is like. How good you have it in this house. Do you think any of those delinquent _friends_ actually give a shit about you? You think they wouldn't just leave you cold the moment you inconvenienced them?"

She waits for his answer with crossed arms. "Well, do you?" she repeats, viciously, vengefully enjoying this, because she knows what his answer will inevitably be.

Johnny swallows. "Yeah."

"Yeah what?" she presses, thinking he means, _'Yeah, they'd leave me cold.' _She wants to hear him admit she's right. She wants to hear him admit he's got no one. She makes him say it often enough that this is a familiar script.

Johnny rubs his sweaty palms against his jeans. "Yeah, I think they actually give a shit about me." He can't look at her when he says it, but he can say it. He can actually say it. He believes it, too.

She laughs, bitterly. "Oh, that's just hilarious. Hilarious. You know what, if these _friends_ care so much about you, Johnny, then why don't they feed you, why don't they clothe you, why don't they shelter you? Huh? Who does that for you, Johnny? Who?"

"Half the time they do," Johnny bites out.

His mom pushes back her chair; she stands up. "I can't have you in this house right now. Get out."

Johnny presses his hands against the table to stand up and escape, but he's not moving fast enough for her. "Get out!" She's shouting this time, and her words sound wet. She's crying.

Johnny's pushing out his chair with the back of his knees, rising to get the hell out of there, when he hears the sound of footsteps behind him. His breath stops short and he feels the familiar whisper of fear creep down every bone of his spinal cord. Johnny has spent his life silently slipping by on tip-toe, sneaking out or up to his bedroom hoping no one will notice him, avoiding every beam and step that creaks–he's memorized them. But these are the footsteps of a man who's not afraid to make an entrance, who doesn't worry if his sound will wake or disturb or interrupt. His father's home.

Johnny is suddenly well aware he's in the center of the room, left exposed. He sees his Ma catch his look of terror, and she quickly swipes the tears off of her cheeks. No matter their animosity, when his mother is sober enough to act reasonable, they've always abided by the same code: don't set his father off. But the damage is already done. Her eyes are watery and red, and there is no way his old man is going to miss that. He's always examining her, seeking out her flaws so he find something new to comment on.

"How was your meeting?" his mom asks. Johnny's back is turned away from the entrance of the kitchen, but he can feel his father's presence.

He turns around and steels himself. "Hey dad," he says, eyes trained to the floor. It's been mopped, but there's a thin layer of gray-sticky matter at his feet.

"Well, somebody finally decided to come home," his dad greets with sarcasm.

"Yeah."

"Yeah," his dad mocks, using Johnny's deflated tone. "Sometimes I think that's the only word you know. Dumb kid," he mutters. He makes his way to the refrigerator, opens it up and starts rummaging inside. Every second his old man doesn't look up at his Ma, Johnny feels a second closer to relief.

"I cleaned the house while you were out," his mom says. And just then, Johnny realizes she's right–in her voice, he hears his own desperation to be found pleasing.

"Looks great," his dad says, not glancing up from the fridge. "Like a palace. Like the goddamn Taj Mahal."

His old man is trying to be nasty, but he's not far from the truth. Johnny's heard the Taj Mahal is nothing more than a huge coffin, pretending to be something nicer. Mausoleum. Randy taught him that word. He forcefully pushes that memory aside.

"Hey, Carol, what'd you do with the meatloaf we had in here?"

"I threw it out. It went bad."

"Like hell it did. I was gonna have some tonight." He stands up and slams the fridge. And then his eyes squint as he stares at his wife. "You've been crying." It's not a question. "What are you keeping from me?"

"Nothing," his mom says quickly. Too quickly.

"Christ! Boy, what'd you say to upset your Ma?"

Johnny shoots a look at his mom, hoping she has an excuse ready for him. A friend is sick. Or, I saw a sad program on television. She's had breakdowns over smaller things than that. But she doesn't come to his defense. Her silence is confirmation.

"Think I feel like dealing with your shit tonight? I had a hard day at work, and I made a lot of progress at the meeting. Not that you'd actually pull your head out of your ass long enough to care about anyone else but yourself."

Johnny takes a deep breath. He counts as he tries to plan the exact words that will come out of his mouth. "Come on, dad. It was just an argument. It's over. It's all okay now."

"You think it's okay to make your mother cry? The woman who gave birth to you?"

This is coming from a man who makes her cry on a weekly basis. But he says nothing in his defense. As true as his comment was–the gang does takes on the burden of her neglect, no matter what relationship she likes to pretend they have on the rare occasion she's in a _'making this a real family' _mood–he knows admitting the truth hurt her.

Johnny doesn't vocalize the truth. Not the truth about himself, not the truth about his folks. He doesn't even let himself think about the truth too often. Whenever his Ma is in the mood to play make-believe, he jumps in right with her, eager to make up for lost time. But now, he has a new truth that trumps all others. His buddies love him. Dallas loves him.

And he's sick of living in denial, sick of going back for more hurt so he can survive on the fantasy of his folks wanting him. Sick of justifying their actions, sick of racking his brain for all the reasons he deserves it, because as long as he deserves it, what they do to him is not wrong. It's discipline. When he can't find another dozen excuses for deserving it, the reason he always comes back to is the fact that he's a queer. Being queer has always meant that at his core, he is disgusting and wrong and deserving of punishment. He still hates himself for it, but he doesn't want to anymore. That's new, too. Dallas accepts him. Even knowing the truth, he accepts him. So if he trusts Dallas–and he does–he can't be that bad of a person, bad enough to deserve the treatment he gets, the treatment he accepts.

He's not ready to break ties. He doesn't know if he'll ever be. He loves them too much to leave them. But at least now, some small part of him can recognize what his buddies have been trying to get through to him all along. Shoot, what even Randy had been trying to tell him, as much as he doesn't want to think about Randy, either.

This is wrong.

The sudden revelation, the sudden acknowledgement, makes him want to vomit.

"You got that blank idiot look on your face again like you're a goddamn mute or something. You listening to me?"

Johnny nods. "Yeah, dad."

"There you go with that 'yeah' again. Go get the two-by-four. You're not gonna get away with disrespecting your mother. Not tonight. Not when both of us are trying to make things work here. I'm not gonna let you ruin it."

Johnny gulps. He stays put.

Usually when his dad is licks him it's because he's gotten liquored up and lost control. That's over with one or two good kicks or socks to the gut. But there are enough times when his dad is half-sober and pissed at Johnny (or, more accurately, the world), so he orders Johnny to bring him the two-by-four and makes him count as he beats his thighs and back. The whole process is more humiliating than painful, because compliance, not violence, is the object. Johnny is good at compliance.

When his dad orders _'go get...'_, Johnny does. He's so used to the ordeal that once he comes back with the beam, he heads directly to the kitchen and leans over counter without being told. When the whippings come, he takes them in silence.

"Didn't I just tell you to go get the two-by-four?" his dad asks, incredulous.

Johnny nods, still looking at the floor. "Yeah."

"We-ell?" It comes out more shocked than anything else.

Johnny can't bring himself to say no. But he's stubbornly refusing to move, despite his better judgment. The primal part of his heart is beating the familiar fast, frantic warning: _go, go, go. _But he doesn't listen.

"Well?" His dad shouts. Johnny jumps at the sudden, intrusive sound.

He nods and quickly rushes out the door of the kitchen, into the hallway, through the living room, and out his front door. He circles around to his overgrown backyard and cautiously eyes the wood beam where it leans against the shed. Johnny looks at the beam. It's been raining and the wood is soggy. He looks back at his house.

And then he hops the fence.

He knows he'll be back. And he knows that running away, however temporarily, is not the bravest of actions. But even if he can't bring himself to fight back or talk back, just for tonight, he's not going to let himself put up with that treatment. He's run before, but those times, it was fear, not defiance, that drove him away.

Johnny feels the freedom of a good, exhausting run as he denies the protests of his thighs and smoker's lungs and leans his freezing nose into the drizzle of the rain. And even greater than the pleasure of the run is the comfort of having a place to run to. He doesn't stop running until he bounds through the Curtises' front door.

He doesn't knock. He doesn't need to.

TBC


	32. Chapter 32

Author's Notes:

Please note that a few lines of dialogue in this chapter are taken directly from _The Outsiders_, which, as we've already established, I do not own.

This story is getting closer and closer to the end, and I want to use this space to extend another thank you to everyone who has been reading and reviewing. I appreciate the feedback, and I appreciate the sense of community this fandom has given me.

Some of my reviews are obviously coming from people who have had personal experience with issues of abuse. I don't know you, but I'm so sorry you went through that. No abuse is ever excusable. It is an injustice that a lot of cases, child abuse committed by the mother is ignored, rationalized, or excused, because women are supposed to be "naturally maternal." This is such a destructive assumption, and it is so unfair to the survivors of abuse. When first reading _The Outsiders_ as a pre-teen, I too had a strong reaction to Johnny's refusing to see his mom in the hospital; the pain of his realization was so heartbreaking. But as I've grown older, as gut-wrenching as that scene still is to read, I see that he showed such a strength of character. Before his death, he was finally able to say 'no' to the people who hurt him and surround himself with the people who truly love him. That is what I've been trying to build towards in this story. I hope you're doing well, and that you have found the people who truly love you.

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The day Dally gets back from the cooler is the day Ponyboy gets jumped for the first time.

Johnny is sitting in fourth-period shop class, sketching out a design for a cabinet. He taps his pencil against the paper and stares out the window overlooking the football field, forcing his gaze away from the bleachers. Shop is one of his few electives, and he doesn't mind it nearly as much as he minds the classes that are supposed to be important. It's the one class he's doing well in.

He's trying to decide whether or not he should place the shelves equal distance from each other when a knock comes at the door, and the office lady asks for him, the one with the short hair, who dresses younger than she is–he's familiar enough with all three of them. He's seen plenty of the boys try to flirt with her, and if they're the right sort (that is, the rich jock type), she gets fake-bashful and asks them to stop flattering her and gives them excuse slips for their tardiness. The lady's eyes go immediately to him, because she's seen him enough to connect the name and face: swinging his legs under the chair in the office, waiting to be herded in behind a closed door so he can be scolded and disciplined by the lower-ranking administrators who deal with the moderately bad kids. Johnny's not a problem student, but he always finds himself in trouble for things he doesn't do. Like show up for class. Or have a parent sign his failure notices.

"Johnny Cade?"

The office lady usually gives him a dirty look. Probably because he doesn't flirt, and he's not the handsome sort even if he did. But she's not giving him a dirty look now, and a sick feeling of dread fills up Johnny's gut. He gulps. When he gets called to the office, it's always over the loudspeaker. No one has ever had to come get him personally. That happened once, to a boy named Matthew Bowers. It was third-period gym class last year with Johnny, and that's when it happened. The office lady came onto the field, even. And she sounded real nice when she called his name. The next day at school, everybody was talking about how Mrs. Bowers had a miscarriage and died.

"Johnny, you have to come with me."

They're walking in silence side-by-side. He can tell the lady is making an honest attempt not to look at him, but she keeps giving in and shooting him this pinched face of pity when she thinks he's not looking.

"Are my parents okay?" Johnny doesn't know when his eyes started watering up. Alls he knows is, he wants to go home. He wants to run home and see them there, and make everything right for his family. Because he knows that's not possible anymore. He knows something has gone terribly wrong.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, but your father called, and your mother's in the hospital. He said it was important for you come quickly."

The only thing he gleans from that statement is: _she's not dead. She's not dead. She's not dead. _

"So, she's gonna be okay?" Johnny asks, tentatively.

"A family member is here to pick you up," she answers evasively. She leaves him at the door of the school, touching his arm one last time.

Johnny's biting his lip to keep back tears, wondering who the hell in his family his dad's on good enough terms with the call in a favor like this, when he spies the family member in question.

Dallas is leaning against the school sign, which used to read "Will Rogers High School, Tulsa's Redskin Braves." Most of the letters are scattered on the grass, however, and the only words remaining are "Tulsa" and "High," which Dally is hastily rearranging. Johnny wipes at his face and jogs down the steps, watching as the two words change to "Hail Thugs."

"Hey, Dal," Johnny says, when he's close enough to speak without having to raise his voice.

Dally turns around, grinning broad and proud. "Hey, Johnnycake! You miss me, or what?" Then his grin drops when he sees Johnny's face. "Shoot kid, what's the matter?"

"_My mom's in the hospital?_"

Dally at least as the grace to wince. "Sorry, kid. I didn't think you'd take it that bad. That woman ain't exactly motherly."

"Don't trick me like that again."

Dally nods.

"I'm glad you're back, though," Johnny says, stating the obvious to fill in the awkward gap of silence. It's only been three weeks. He was supposed to get three months. "You get out early for good behavior?"

Dally laughs. "Who me? You kidding? They got overcrowded. Threw out the shits with minor offenses. Although, you know what? I'll tell Darry your version. Maybe it will get me on his good side. I heard he's pretty pissed I got in trouble with the law again."

Johnny puts his hands in his pockets and slumps his body, mirroring Dally's easy slouch. "You seen any of the boys since you got out?"

"You're the first." Johnny's cheeks go warm. "You wanna go find them?" Dally asks.

"Yup."

Dally throws his arm around Johnny's shoulder, and the two of them walk away together.

#

Steve and Soda have just finished their shift at the DX (Thursdays are their half-days), and the four of them are battling it out in a game of two-on-two pool while a twangy, irritating duet country song is playing in the background. Johnny heard the radio jockey announce the name of the artist as "Ernest Tubbs." He doesn't think he could have made up a better name for a musician he'd expect to hear at Buck's.

It's Johnny's turn, and he's leaning over, inspecting the table closely. The game is almost finished, and Johnny and Steve are neck-and-neck with Dallas and Soda. Johnny chalks up the end of the pool stick and leans forward again. He reaches far over the table, twisting his body to get the right angle, and hits the white ball with practiced gentleness. Through a serious of planned maneuvers involving four balls, the thirteen and the nine glide easily into separate pockets.

"Ha!" He looks up pridefully, ready to gloat at Dally, and then his face drops. Sylvia's on Dallas's arm.

She looks good, like she dressed up (or, more accurately, down) for the occasion. Her makeup is smokey and heavily applied, and her pin-straight, waist-length black hair and the blunt-cut bangs across her forehead look a little greasy, a little dirty, like she didn't bother to fix it up. That works for her.

She always comes around eventually. This time, it didn't even take an afternoon. Johnny's wasted two years of his life hoping that each one of Dally and Sylvia's breakups would be the last. But he knows now that the fights and infidelities and nastiness only strengthens their bond; they get off on the hell they give each other. He wonders whether someone tipped her off where Dallas was, or if she simply assumed when she heard he was out.

"Missed you," Sylvia says, kissing Dally's neck.

Soda forcefully turns his laugh into a cough. Steve openly snickers. Dally scowls at them both.

You know exactly what you're getting with Sylvia. She's the type of person you love or hate immediately. Most guys love her. Most girls hate her. Johnny has always hated her. But right now, and he can't explain it, while he ain't as amused by the situation as his buddies are...he's not jealous, either.

"Get off me," Dally says, pushing her away.

"Oh, come on, baby." She puts her hand on his hip and he snatches it and shoves it away.

"I said get off me. I oughta slug you, you two-timing bitch."

Johnny swallows, but Sylvia grins, as if Dally's contempt were somehow more desirable than his forgiveness. "Oh, is that all you're upset about?" she asks in a baby voice. "If I made a fuss over every time you spent the night with an easy little slut, I-"

"Then you'd be making a fuss over every night I spent with you," Dally shoots.

"Why, Dallas Winston," Sylvia starts in with an exaggerated southern drawl, like she's some old-fashioned belle, "I never thought you'd pay me a compliment." She leans up to kiss him, but Dallas grabs her face and pinches her lips. Sylvia wrinkles her nose and spits at him. It lands at the corner of his mouth and he grins wickedly and licks it off. Dally crosses his arms over his chest. Johnny doesn't know if he's standing like that to look threatening or appealing to her. There's probably not a difference.

"Come on, Dally, stop pretending to be angry and admit you missed me."

"I ain't talking to you, Sylvia. We're done for good." Dallas pulls at the ring hanging around Sylvia's chest and the chain snaps off the back of her neck. He gives her the middle finger and glides the ring slowly, slowly up and down until it settles at his knuckle, a flash of sapphire sending off the expletive.

Sylvia smirks, amused at the whole ordeal. "That ring's gonna be the only thing sliding up and down on you for a while if you don't wise up," she says. She turns around on her heel, presenting herself to her best advantage. Dally slaps her ass as he shoves her on her way.

To Johnny, they've always seemed more together when they're broken up.

"See you around when you come around," Sylvia says over her shoulder. Her chin is held high and her shoulders are pinned back in confidence as she struts out.

All the old hicks sitting lonesome at the bar for their 'happy' hour turn their necks and stare as she goes. Sometimes, when Johnny sees old people, he wonders what he's gonna be like when he gets to that age. That's part of the reason he doesn't like going to Bucks. It makes him sad to think of them old men loitering around in the middle of the afternoon, remembering the good ol' days but knowing they're over, staring at the young people with contempt and admiration, drinking beer after beer, occasionally getting buzzed enough to shout out an unreturned catcall. Sometimes, he thinks about going over and talking to them, but he's always been too shy. He knows one of them, the oldest, is a veteran of the Second World War, and whenever that guy gets drunk, he goes off about Normandy until the other guys around him tell him to shut up. Johnny wonders if he'll be like that, seeking companionship and comfort in strangers who won't ever return it. Probably not. He's more of the neighborhood recluse, porch-sitting type.

Steve whistles. "That's a mighty woman you've got there. Most _guys_ don't even dare to mess with you." He laughs and Soda joins in.

"Yeah, well, most guys don't like being punished," Dally quips with a raised eyebrow. He gestures slapping back and forth with his hand, making high-pitched, mocking gasps of pleasure with each swat.

All three of them are laughing now, and then Dally notices Johnny from the corner of his eye and stops laughing abruptly. But then Johnny's lips form into a half-smile. A real smile. And Dally...Dally smiles back. A real smile. Like they understand each other. It's funny, because Johnny didn't understand himself until now.

"Aw, why ain't you laughing, Johnny? What's the matter?" Soda teases. "Us no-count hoods embarrassing you with our dirty talk?"

Johnny realizes he is blushing. Sex talk, even the normal bragging the guys always pull, has always embarrassed him. He thinks it would even if he weren't queer. "Yeah, maybe a little."

"I don't believe it for a second! Johnny may not talk dirty, but with how quiet he is, you know he thinks dirty," Steve says.

"You know what?" Soda says. "I bet you're right! I bet our Johnnycake here is the biggest ladies' man of us all, only he knows how to keep his mouth shut!" Soda doesn't give Johnny a chance to be ashamed of himself for deceiving them. It's hard to feel bad when Soda's around. He grabs Johnny in a playful chokehold and messes up his hair with his knuckles. The two of them roughhouse, Johnny using the pool stick as a pretend sword, swishing it around like in the pirates in those swashbuckling flicks Pony was into for a while, until Soda cries 'Uncle!' and the game is over.

"I'm gonna get a round of beers," Dally says. "We gotta celebrate my return to civilization."

"Get me a Miller," Johnny requests.

"Sure thing, Johnnycake," Dally says as he walks away.

Johnny sits on the edge of the pool table and swings his legs. He's already feeling a thousand times better now that Dal's back, and now it's a thousand to the second power, now that Sylvia stopped by. Whatever it is the two of them have together, whatever it is she gets from Dallas–the crazy back and forth of love and hate, the drama, the fighting, the chemistry, the cheating, even the sex–that's not what Johnny's after.

He doesn't know how to define what he wants from Dal. Alls he knows is, he's got it.

"I think it's my turn," Soda says. Johnny tosses him the pool stick. Soda whistles. "That sure is a tough shot to follow, Johnny. You oughta get into hustling. You could make a pretty quick buck."

"Hey, wait. I never got my next shot!" Johnny shouts.

Soda grins at him and corner pockets the two.

#

_No. No. No. _

All other thoughts are drowned by that protest, swallowed beneath his anger, his attempt to force his will on the universe and stop this from having happened.

_No._

_Not him. Anybody but Pony. _

Johnny's legs are throbbing and he's gasping and sucking in air so deeply he thinks he might keel over and die of asphyxiation. Each step becomes more weighted until he finds himself crumbling to his knees. He pushes his palms against the cement to force himself up when he feels a hand on his shoulder pushing him back down. He sees stars. Actual stars. It's crazy how the cartoons get things right sometimes.

"They're gone. Those fuckers are pissing themselves all the way to the west side. Think I cracked their window shield with that last rock." Dally sounds winded, but at least he can still speak. He's kneeling at his side now, hands on Johnny's upper back. "Just breathe, kid. Deep breaths."

"Pony," Johnny manages to speak. It feels like his chest in on fire.

"Don't talk," Dally barks. "Ponyboy's fine. Kid was barely scratched. Darry and Soda're already with him. And the rest of the boys are headed back there now."

Johnny stops trying to force himself back up the moment he hears Ponyboy is safe. He settles cross-legged on the sidewalk, trying to slow down his choking gasps into something that resembles normal breathing.

"Shoot, kid. I've never seen you take off so fast. You'd've chased those Socs straight out of Tulsa if you could've kept it up. Looked like you were looking for blood. You ain't gonna faint on me, are ya?"

Johnny shakes his head–although, at the moment, it's a strong possibility.

"Sounds like you need an inhaler or something. Anybody ever get you checked for asthma?"

Johnny shakes his head.

"'Course not," Dally mutters.

When Johnny can speak again, all he can say is, "Pony."

"He's fine," Dally repeats, his voice hard. "Can you get up?" Johnny nods, and Dally pulls him to his feet, rough-like, as if he weren't doing it to help him. "Let's go check up on him, okay?"

When they get there, all Johnny wants to do is rush to Ponyboy's side and check every inch of his body, reassure himself that there is nothing wrong with him, that he's fine, that he can't ever get hurt. He can't do that, though, even if there were nobody around to judge him for being sentimental. Pony's real brothers are crowding him, and the rest of the gang have got there first. They're all taller and they're standing closer, and Johnny's not going to budge his way in. He stands in the back, trying to get as good a look as is possible, trying to swallow and hide his concern, in case Ponyboy notices and it adds to his own fears. From what he can see, Pony's got a nick to his face, his eyes are watering up, and he's gonna have a bruise, but otherwise, he looks okay. Well, as okay as his best friend, the most innocent kid in the world, can look with a bruise on his face. So, not okay at all.

After the initial God-thanking gratitude that Ponyboy is going to be all right has passed, a quiet anger–an anger Johnny has never allowed himself to feel, not for himself at least–begins to eat at him. His body coils up into one angry muscle in reaction to it. He's about ready to scream in rage at the injustice of it all, but he can't let himself lose control and make Pony feel worse. He starts tasting something copper in his mouth, and Dally's staring at him hard, and he realizes he's clenching his jaw and biting down on his lower lip so hard he's made himself bleed.

Johnny calms himself. He licks his lip. He ain't hurt too bad. He tries to push aside the fury, and he can smother it just a bit as he listens to the voices of his buddies.

"I didn't know you were out of the cooler, yet, Dally," Ponyboy says. Johnny can hear him deliberately trying to even out the terrified shaking of his voice. He's still young enough that cracks half the time from puberty, anyway.

"Good behavior. Got off early." Dally lights a cigarette and hands it to Johnny, winking at him as he does so. Johnny ain't gonna expose his lie, and they both know it. Johnny follows Dally's lead and sits down on the cement. The rest of the gang follows suit.

#

When they all have parted ways, and Dally is walking Johnny home, he says, "You gonna tell me what that was about?"

"What?"

"You know what."

Johnny shrugs. He looks down. Kicks at a piece of litter–some candy bar wrapper.

"I don't..." he hesitates. "I don't want Pony to end up like me."

"There's nothing wrong with you," Dallas says, without an ounce of sympathy. Like he's annoyed with him.

But there is something wrong with him, and they both know it. It's not normal for a teenage boy to be scared of his own shadow, to jump when he hears a loud noise, to huddle in the shadows when he walks home alone, to wake up from a nightmare sweating and sick to his stomach and find he's pissed his bed at sixteen years old. That only happened once, his first night he spent alone after the jumping, and no one knows, but it still happened. Fear is the one constant in Johnny's life, the one thing he can be sure will always be there waiting for him.

"You don't think..." Johnny lets his voice trail off as he gathers his thoughts. "How long do you think they had him for?" He closes his eyes. Even if they'd managed to chase away the Socs who had got ahold of Ponyboy, Johnny knows they never go away, not really. He doesn't want that for Pony.

"Look, Johnny. You saw him. He was fine. He got one lousy bruise and a scratch that a bandage will fix right up."

"The threats are worse than the bruises, though," Johnny says.

They're standing on his front yard right now, across from each other, like a standoff.

"Yeah," Dallas admits. "I know."

Johnny's never seen Dallas vulnerable, but he guesses Dally does know. He lived on the streets of New York. He has to.

"You better come with me to the Nighty Double tomorrow. Don't back out," Dally says, just to say something, something light, something meaningless. Anything to cop out of this conversation.

"I ain't never backed out on you," Johnny says.

"No you haven't, kid. You haven't." Dallas swallows. "If your folks give you trouble, Buck's letting me stay in one of his rooms again. Come find me. Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay."

#

When he enters his house, his mom doesn't return his hello. That's well enough. At least she ain't hollering at him.

He makes his way up to his bedroom and throws himself onto his mattress, which is lying on the floor. He's burnt so many holes into it, sneaking a smoke and ashing his cigarettes there since the age of nine, that he can't bother to count them. Ponyboy's been up to his room before. The first time he gave him this kind of pitying look because he had a mattress without a bed frame, a blanket but no sheets, and an unmatched, faded sofa pillow instead of a head pillow, but Johnny actually prefers it that way. It feels safer somehow, like nothing can come out from under and grab him, or tangled him up and make it impossible for him to make a quick escape.

He pushes his face into the pillow, coils the blanket around his hands, and resists the urge to scream.

_Not Pony. It's not fair. _

And a part of him is disgusted with himself, because now that he's had time to cool down, the injustice of Pony's suffering is not the only thought that's rushing through his brain. There's a sick feeling lingering in the back of his mind. A sick feeling of relief. A sick feeling of gratitude. Because he got a good look at all the boys as he was chasing them down. And it matters to him. It still matters to him, even though it shouldn't.

Randy wasn't one of them.

TBC


	33. Chapter 33

Author's Notes:

Sorry to disappoint those of you who were hoping for a happy ending, but as you might have guessed, this story is going to align with the events of the book from here on out. There are only three chapters left (including this one). As for Ponyboy knowing about Randy's involvement in Johnny's jumping earlier in the narrative: I promise that will be explained next chapter. For now, let's just say Pony's a good friend, and not the most reliable narrator.

I have tentative plans for a short sequel, Randy's perspective. Please let me know if this story sound interesting to you in the comments section!

From this point on, the plot, as well as quite a bit of the dialogue, is taken directly from _The Outsiders _(both the book and the film). I do not own _The Outsiders_. Also, there is a line lifted from the 1965 movie, _Beach Blanket Bingo_. I do not own that film, either.

Once again, thanks for reading.

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Johnny is struggling to get over the back fence that faces the rear of the drive-in movie screen; he can hear the dialogue of the film that has already started, even if he can't see it. "I come to tell you that these beach bums is bums!"

It's one of those cheesy motorcycle and bikini flicks that Pony loves to hate and drags him to all the time, just the two of them. That kid somehow manages to remember the most ridiculous quotes at just the right moment weeks later, forcing Johnny to gulp down his laughter in embarrassment because none of the other boys get what's so funny.

Pony's already hopped to other side, and he's kinda smiling smugly at himself for being such an athlete. Johnny cusses under his breath, 'cause the damn fence is built pretty high to prevent just this thing from happening, and he can't get a good grip on the chain-links now that the rubber traction at the bottom of his shoes has worn out. Dally should have let them pay like Pony wanted to–it only costs twenty-five cents, and even Johnny has a quarter on him. He slides down the fence for the second time, burning his palms. Dally snickers and gives him a boost. When Johnny reaches the top, he swings himself over. Somehow, Dally lands before he does.

It's rare he gets to hang out with Ponyboy and Dallas, just the three of them together; Darry doesn't let Pony spend time around Dally without the rest of them too often. Out of the whole gang, the two of them are the least connected people (Johnny has a sneaking suspicion that Ponyboy doesn't even like Dally all that much). But Johnny never feels better than when he's in between them. Nights like this are rare and perfect, getting his two favorite people in the world all to himself. He's always felt that he has two best buddies, buddies he cares about in two drastically different ways, but with equal strength just the same. It used to worry him, like he felt like he was supposed to choose or something, but he thinks it's okay to have two best friends; just like it's okay that Pony has two brothers.

Dally spots the backs of two chicks' heads up towards the front, and he eyes them like he's got a plan, grins a feral grin at Johnny and Pony, and then saunters down the aisle in the girls' direction, even though there are at least three dozen other unoccupied seats. Ponyboy rolls his eyes at Johnny when Dally's not looking.

Dally stops at the aisle behind the girls, and Pony urges Johnny in first. Johnny's a little disappointed that he's sitting on the end: it leaves the other seat open for a stranger and keeps him too far away from Dallas to have a conversation, but there's not much he can do now that Pony's pushing him along impatiently and playfully, so he takes his seat. It's also annoying because he's sitting directly behind someone, so he can't kick his feet up, and the seats aren't elevated, so the top of the chick's head in front of him blocks the bottom third of the screen. The girl turns her face just slightly, and he catches her profile, the outline of her button nose.

He thinks he might be sick.

It's Randy's girl, Marcia. The cute, Socy brunette, with her perfect pony and her perfect life. Why the hell did Dallas have to choose _these_ seats of all places? All the thrill of sneaking in, all the joy of the occasion is sucked up and spit out with just the glance of that girl. He's going to be stuck looking at her the entire film, stuck thinking about Randy, when all he wants is a good night out with his buddies.

Going steady. He swallows, wondering what it must be like to be allowed to walk around arm-in-arm in public and kiss in public and not have anybody harass you or hate you for it. He wonders what else they've done besides kiss. He hates himself for wondering, for caring. He doesn't own Randy. With the way things ended, he shouldn't care if Randy slept with half the school by now. It has nothing to do with him.

He wonders if Marcia's just a mask Randy can hide behind, or if maybe Randy's not completely like Johnny and is capable of being a real man, too. He wonders if love was a line Randy borrowed for convenience, if he uses it on all the people he wants to lay. Johnny feels a wave of guilt and shame and honestly, a little vindication, when he realizes that technically, that night in the lot when Randy came to kiss him, that night that ended so disastrously, Randy'd been cheating on Marcia with him.

"Hey Pony, you know what I love? I love me a real redhead," Dally says, kicking his feet up on the seat in front of him, crossing his legs leisurely so his dirty shoes land right next to to the face of a real redhead. Bob's redhead, Johnny realizes. He takes a deep breath, praying this is where Dally's comments end. Pony shakes his head in Johnny's direction, amused and exasperated with Dally's antics. He gives Johnny a knowing look, as if they both know the trouble that's coming.

Johnny closes his eyes and swallows. _Not this girl,_ he thinks, willing Dally to hear his thoughts and understand. _Please just leave her alone._ Because neither Pony nor Dally have any idea of the real trouble that's coming if he keeps it up. This situation ain't as simple as Dallas's usual flirting that either ends in a slap or a one night stand. Scratch that. 'Flirt' is too soft and generous a word to apply to anything Dallas has ever said to a woman.

Johnny's going to take a wild guess and assume this girl didn't get to be captain of the cheerleading team, didn't get to be the queen bee who wears Bob's letter jacket, by having a nice personality. He bets she's a real bitch. But then again, Dallas probably knows that. It seems that somehow, instinctively, Dal can scan a crowd and know every time which girl is the wild, manipulative sort who'll respond to his advances in kind, with either an insult or an insinuation. Johnny's never seen Dally pull this macho shit with a girl who got shy and scared and cried. And Johnny knows plenty of girls do react that way when men get mouthy, 'cause his seen it happen with other people.

Of all the chicks in the world, Dallas had to go and pick up Bob's.

Dallas leans forward in his chair, hovers over her shoulder so his lips are near her neck. Johnny can see the girl's body stiffen in indignation. "Are you a real redhead?" Dally asks into her ear. Johnny watches as she recoils.

He wants to tell Dallas to stop it, but he can't. Not after he just got through with serving time for his sake. Not after everything Dally has done for him. He taps his foot anxiously on the grass, waiting for Dally to give up and leave her alone, feeling a new sort of helpless. It's different to feel helpless from stopping friend than it is from stopping an enemy.

"How can I tell if you're a _real_ redhead? If this pretty red hair on your head is the same as it is-"

He can't take it. He stands up abruptly, hoping Dally'll get bored with the game after his interruption. "I'm going to get a Coke," he mumbles, and shuffles out, stepping over Pony's feet on the floor, and waiting an uncomfortably long time for Dally to huff, annoyed, and remove his feet from off the chair in front of him to let Johnny step by.

When he returns with his pop, Pony's sitting there alone, chatting with the girls. They seem to be having a pleasant conversation. Johnny hovers there awkwardly, bending the straw of his drink back and forth between his fingers, waiting for Pony to move in his legs (which are now stretched out, cat-like) so he can scoot by. He feels exposed. Bob's girlfriend's body is angled so that she's turn around and facing them. And Johnny is keenly, uncomfortably aware of her gaze. It's not often a Soc girl bothers to glance his way, but when one does it's always the same: a critical scanning up and down that always ends in a sneer of contempt. He quickly shoots his eyes in her direction, maybe as a form of defiance, to prove he can stare with equal disdain. But he never gets the chance to scowl at her; she's wearing a warm, gentle smile. Like she can tell he's uncomfortable and wants to make him feel better.

Johnny shoots her a mumbled, guilty, "Hi," feeling the sting of his incorrect and unfair assumption that she must be a bitch. This time, even though she's the Soc, he was the one to be judgmental.

Johnny hastily takes his seat, balances his pop between his knees, and tucks his cold fingers under his thighs. He stares at the screen intently, hoping to signal that he's so engrossed in the ridiculous plot that he doesn't want to talk. Hoping the girls will turn their faces back around, leave them alone, and watch the movie as if nothing had happened. He wishes he'd gone to the bathroom instead of having grabbed a drink, 'cause he really feels nauseated by the whole ordeal. At least they don't try to talk to him.

When Dally returns, he plants himself directly next to Bob's girl and hands both girls a Coke. He drapes an arm around the redhead, stretches out in cocky indifference, and says something smug under his breath to her. She throws the pop in his face. Johnny's guessing that's exactly the reaction Dally was looking for, going by the frighteningly delighted way he's wiping off his mouth with his sleeve. "That might cool you off greaser..."

As Johnny listens to her increasingly loud retort, he starts shaking. The cold of the night is something fierce, but that ain't the reason.

This needs to end. Now.

He can't have Bob and Randy and their posse chasing after them, seeking revenge after Dallas inevitably takes this too far. Because when the Socs come looking for them, Pony ain't gonna be able to keep his mouth shut. He's gonna blurt out who they are, what they've done to Johnny. And without second thought before or after, without an ounce of remorse, Dally will do his best to kill them. He's wanted them dead since he found Johnny in the lot, and Dally always gets what he wants. Johnny knows this like he knows his times tables. With some things, Dallas is as predictable as a mathematic fact. That's how this night will end if he doesn't put a stop to this now. If he lets it escalate. He can't let Dally get locked up in the cooler for life.

"Fiery, huh?" Dal asks wickedly. "Well, that's the way I like them."

"Leave her alone, Dally."

"Huh?" Dally asks, initially confused. And Johnny watches as that confusion changes to fury.

He realizes suddenly what he must think: that he's jealous. That's he's trying to get in the way of him getting laid because Johnny wants to be the one with him. And it's so unfair because that's not even how he feels. This has nothing to do with that at all. But Dally's glowering at him with such contempt that Johnny knows that has to be what he's thinking. And he can't have Dally think that about him. He can't have Dally think he'd ever stand in the way of something that makes him feel good. He's only ever wanted to make Dally happy.

He's too upset to speak, but even if weren't, he couldn't explain. No. He can't let Dally get locked up in the cooler for life. Or worse, get sentenced to death and die in the chair before he turns eighteen.

"What did you say to me?" Dally shouts at him.

Johnny sinks further down into the seat. He sees Pony's wide, surprised eyes boring into him as Pony watches the whole exchange. He looks like he can't believe what Johnny just did. Johnny can't believe himself, either. It's not his place to talk back to Dal, who has always protected him, who has always had his back. He feels like a traitor, but he has to do it.

"You heard me, Dal. I said leave her alone."

For a second, it looks like Dally's gonna clock him. Johnny winces in anticipation of the blow, but it never comes. Dally stands up brusquely, shoves his hands viciously into his pockets, kicks in his seat, and storms away.


	34. Chapter 34

A stranger's hand slams down on Johnny's shoulder, and the drive-in screen shakes. "Okay, greasers, you've had it."

Johnny clenches his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. It's a cool, disaffected voice–Bob's, maybe. Definitely not Randy's; he'd recognize that. But there's no question: the Socs have come looking for their girls, and now they've all been caught. Cherry (Bob's girl has a name now), Cherry said they'd been drinking, too. That's why the girls left the date, that's why they're sitting in the cheap twenty-five cent seats instead lounging in a blue Mustang. _The Socs are liquored up and Dallas left and now Pony and me are gonna get killed–stop panicking! _

He's gasping back his need to vomit, but Pony's with him. He can't let himself freak out, not when he's responsible for Pony. He has to calm down. Johnny wills himself to take deep breaths, wills his body to relax. He commands himself: _open your eyes and face this_, just as he hears Pony's cheerful voice.

"Glory, Two-Bit, scare us to death why don't ya!"

Still shaking, Johnny opens his eyes and arches his neck back just to make sure. "Hey, Two-Bit." His greeting sounds scratched and pathetic, even to his own ears. In the corner of his vision is Cherry, sitting next to him, pursing her lips in concern at his reaction. She fiddles with her hair, curling a strand behind her ear, and smiles at him, pretending she hadn't noticed.

Somehow, he'd gotten roped into sitting with them. It wasn't an invitation he could reject without Pony suspecting something was up. At least he's farthest away from Marcia. It's weird to think they've kissed the same guy, they share the same germs. When Marcia jokingly asked for their 'protection' and it was obvious there was absolutely no talking Pony out of it, Johnny jumped immediately for the seat next to Cherry, no matter that she's Bob's girl and poses a greater threat if he gets caught: at least doesn't have to sit so close to Marcia they'd have to compromise elbow room, so close that he could note in detail every possible way he's inadequate by comparison.

Still on edge, he cringes when he feels Two-Bit rough up his hair. The grease leaves it sticking in odd angles when he removes his hand. "Sorry, kid. I forgot."

Two-Bit hurdles over the seats and settles in on the opposite side of Marcia, bouncing in his chair three times before relaxing. Johnny thinks, _Christ_. _This is not going to end well_, just as they start exchanging flirtatious retorts.

#

They're walking to Two-Bit's house so they can pick up his car and give the girls a ride home, and Johnny's eagerly anticipating the moment he can relax. So far tonight, they got away scott-free, and it only needs to last about thirty more minutes, and then everything should be okay. He keeps counting the seconds in his head, and even though that stretches out the time, he can't help it. He just wants the night to be over.

Two-Bit and Marcia are hitting it off real good. They have the same witty sense of humor and they're shooting half insulting, half complimentary sex-laden quips at each other, and exchanging crazy stories that follow a train of thought and speech too fast for Johnny to keep up with. Johnny doesn't want to like Marcia, but from where he's standing, and what he can overhear, he can see that she's a nice enough girl. He wonders if Randy makes her happy. Probably not, the way she's carrying on with Two-Bit.

Pony and Cherry are another story. They're two of a kind. He's never heard Pony speak like this to anybody but him and Soda, sharing stories in that soft dreamy voice of his, describing clouds and early mornings and nice things that Johnny would never even notice if Pony wasn't constantly mentioning them. Johnny gets so wrapped up in his worries that it's like the world outside his head doesn't exist unless it's interrupting those worries to harass and hurt him. But Pony points out the nice things in the world–the things that never interrupt, but are always there if you look for them. The sunsets and autumn leaves and shapes you can imagine in the stars.

Johnny only ever listens when Pony gets like this. He likes to listen. But Cherry can talk the same way. Cherry can contribute. Johnny watches them, walking closely, speaking softly. Ponyboy's basically forgotten Johnny's even walking with them. He swallows, realizing that he is, irrationally, a little jealous. They've only known each other for a couple hours, and already Johnny can tell Cherry'd make a better friend for Pony. She's someone who can give back as much as she takes. Unlike him, who sits in silence, having nothing smart enough to add to the conversation.

When Cherry asks about Darry, however, Ponyboy's gentle demeanor shifts suddenly. He crosses his arms, opens his mouth to say something, and then decides against it. "What's there to say?" he asks. "He's big and handsome and likes to play football," he concludes dismissively, blithely.

Johnny knows the two of them don't exactly see eye-to-eye all the time, but he thinks his description's unfair even still. It's not that it ain't accurate, Darry _is_ those three things, but he's a thousand times more. He's a brother who gave up an easy life for a difficult one to care for his family. He's the leader of a tightly knit gang, the main cog that keeps them all going. He's the Boy of the Year who doesn't bat an eye when he has to clean the house like a woman, or work hard labor in eight-hour shifts. He's the closest thing any of them will get, ever again, to Mr. Curtis.

Cherry presses Pony, wanting to understand Darry better. And Pony's anger wells up and floods out in a tirade unlike anything Johnny's ever heard from him. He's going on and on about how mean Darry is, how cold he is, how much Darry hates him, until he concludes, "...I'll bet he wishes he could stick me in a home somewhere, and he'd do it, too, if Soda'd let him."

Two-Bit says a few words of protest, but Pony just scowls, obviously not listening. Johnny needs to make him understand. Make him understand how much Darry loves him. He gulps, realizing quite suddenly the way he's neglected his pals these past few months. He hasn't been paying proper attention, or else he could have fixed this rift between them before it ever got to the point Pony would think that. What had Pony said to him, a while ago now? _Darry's driving me up a wall and Soda isn't always around to stop him. I need you here, Johnny. I swear to God I do. _But he had been too invested in his own problems to pay much heed to those words. And Darry, too. Darry had tried to reach out to him. _I had no idea how hard this was gonna be. And I'm damn clueless when it comes to raising him right..._ But again, Johnny had been too wrapped up in his own shame to take in what Darry had been sharing with him. He could curse himself, deserting his friends like this in their time of need, too selfishly concerned with his own issues to think about anyone else. He needs to make this right between them. He needs to think of the right words. He never has the right words.

"Gee," Johnny whispers, "I thought you and Darry and Soda got along real well..."

"Yeah, well, we don't. And you can shut your trap, Johnny Cade, 'cause we all know you're not wanted at home, either. And you can't blame them," Pony snaps.

Johnny stops in his tracks, feeling the blood drain from his face and his fingertips, the words like a physical blow to the gut.

Occasionally, Pony lashes out in the mornings when he's grumpy. He's made nasty remarks to Johnny when he's irritated with something or someone else in the past. Most people do. But Pony has never, ever said something that deliberately hurtful. Johnny's mind tries to grasp at what he could have possibly done or said to make Pony so angry with him. It's probably because he hasn't been there for him in the way he should have been, because he hasn't been a good friend. Johnny's mentally trying to form an apology that will cover all his bases, when Two-Bit slaps Pony over the head. He threatens to beat him, voice hard and serious.

Johnny has to forcefully stop himself from yelling at Two-Bit for hitting Pony. He knows Two-Bit's only sticking up for him, and he'd never carry through with the threat. Two-Bit's voice softens when he turns to Johnny. "He didn't mean it, Johnny."

"I'm sorry," Pony says. He's shame-faced, looking down. "I was just mad." He is sorry. Johnny can tell that he genuinely is, and he forgives him immediately. He knows he's done plenty he should ask forgiveness for.

"It's the truth," Johnny concedes, trying to make Pony feel less guilty. "I don't care." But he does care. He cares it's the truth, and he cares that Pony said it. He never thought Pony'd be able to get mean like that. Cutting him exactly where it hurts. He has to look out for him better, before he gets hard like everybody else.

Two-Bit and Pony go off on some the-world's-not-fair despairing conversation. Johnny listens, but he has no interest in participating in it, especially with two Soc girls in their presence, listening in on their troubles. All greasers know full well they've got the hard knocks, but Johnny's never seen a point in getting all vocal and upset about it. It doesn't help. If anything, it hurts. Two-Bit's trying to make light of it when the blue Mustang starts driving up the street, slowing down as it gets closer to them, circling again, and then finally pulling over.

He fucking hates that car.

#

Bob and Randy exit the car, slamming the doors behind themselves almost simultaneously. There's an odd symmetry to them: they're equal heights, but Randy's light coloring and white oxford shirt comes contrasts with Bob's dark hair and wine-colored sweater. There's a hardness to Bob's face that Randy's never had. Johnny finds himself wide-eyed, his gaze pulled in the direction of the car, trying to figure how many other boys are in there, analyzing their odds of getting seriously hurt.

He catches Pony eyeing him knowingly, making the connection between the girls and Randy and the night he got jumped as he moves his gaze from Johnny, to the Mustang, to the boys who have just ambled out of it. Pony steps a little closer to him, but whether he's seeking comfort or offering it, Johnny doesn't know. Two-Bit leans an elbow on Johnny's shoulder.

There's the usual tuff posturing, a script they're all too familiar with: the Socs yelling at their girlfriends, threatening to start something. Two-Bit giving lip right back, Ponyboy following along, but Johnny ain't never been a man of many words. He gives his best tough scowl, but even he doesn't think he's doing a good job at disguising the wild anxiety teeming inside him. He wishes his back were pressed up against a wall. Partially so no one could get at him from behind that way, partially because it would push his switchblade against his body so he could feel its shape; knowing he's got a weapon always brings him a small sense of security.

Cherry's reaming Bob out about his drinking, and all Johnny can think is, _You have no idea_. And Bob says, "Even if you're mad at us, there's no reason to go walking the streets with these bums." A small, hysterical part of Johnny half expects Ponyboy to snicker, 'I come to tell you these beach bums is beach bums!' But the rational side of him knows it's all over. Any shred of hope he had that they'd somehow avoid a fight is gone.

No respectable greaser can take an insult like that and keep his reputation without fighting for it. Everything Johnny's been dreading is about to begin, but at least they have Two-Bit; maybe the three of them can take them.

"Who you calling bums?" Two-Bit asks.

"Listen, greasers, we got four more of us in the backseat," Bob warns.

Johnny can't look them in the face. If he could only force himself to look, maybe he could read something in Randy's expression. Maybe he could search for signs that he hates him. Or doesn't. That he misses him. Or doesn't. But he can't. It's safer to look down. He stares at the rings on Bob's hands with dread and reflectively fingers the scar across his temple; he stares at the pavement, and then his eyes catch Randy's shoes. Johnny steps backwards in something like shock, nearly tripping.

Brass-colored leather penny loafers. He swallows. He remembers seeing them close up, when he was lying on the floor of his porch, pain coursing through his center. They're the same shoes he was wearing when he stood between Johnny and his father and forced his old man to back away and stop hitting him. The same shoes he was wearing when he cried because he couldn't bear to see Johnny take a beating. And now he's going to give him one.

"Well, pity the backseat," Two-Bit quips, snapping Johnny out of his memory. He takes a pop bottle, shatters the edge against a nearby fence, and hands it over to Pony. Pony looks down at the broken bottle in his hand as if he doesn't know how it got there. Two-Bit's already flipped out his black-handled switchblade when Johnny reaches towards his back pocket for his own.

"No!" Cherry cries. "Stop it!" There's a struggle of wills as Two-Bit tries to defend their reputations by insisting on fighting, and Cherry is set on going back with Bob–no matter how drunk–to keep the peace. And still, Johnny is determinedly _not_ looking at Randy. Cherry's willpower wins.

The girls go back to the Socs, the car so thoroughly crowded that Marcia hops in on top of Randy in the driver's seat (_How can he even see the road? He could get into an accident..._) and Cherry on top of Bob, who's sitting shotgun. The Mustang zooms away with a screech.

#

Two-Bit leaves them at the curb of the vacant lot to search for party somewhere and get properly sauced. Johnny about to suggest they both head home for the night, when Pony offers, "Wanna hang out here for a while?" Not mentioning why. Johnny's grateful for that. Three blocks over, they'd heard the sound of his folks hollering at each other.

They walk over to Johnny's usual spot and Pony helps him grab a few sticks for kindling, and the two of them work in silence as they arrange the branches in a teepee shape, shoving dry fallen leaves underneath. Once the campfire's got going, they lie down on their backs, side-by-side, like they've done together on other nights, looking up at the stars. They're faintly visible now, even with the light pollution. Pony sure knows an awful lot about the cosmos. Some nights, he points to different clusters and tells Johnny stories about them. Johnny can't look at the night sky without seeing those sisters running from that creepy guy. Other nights, Pony talks about them like he ought to be wearing a lab coat, going on and on about the Big Bang (which is now a sure thing because of radios or something) and solar systems and shit like that. Other nights, they confess things to each other they've never confessed to anybody before. Once, Johnny told Pony he was thinking about to killing himself, but that upset Pony so much that he realized suicide wasn't something he could ever do, no matter how bad it got, so long as Pony was around.

"You got a cigarette?" Pony asks.

Johnny checks, but there's only one left. Without hesitating, he hands it over to Pony.

Pony lights up, but after a few puffs, he passes the smoke back to Johnny. He noticed. Pony always notices.

"Ponyboy?" Johnny asks, reluctantly, pausing to take a long inhale and gather his thoughts.

"Yeah, Johnny?"

"Don't tell, okay?" Pony's quiet, and Johnny's not sure if he understands. Or maybe he's just mad at him still. "Not Dal, not nobody. Not ever."

Ponyboy rolls onto his stomach. He plucks at a blade of grass. "You mean about Randy?" he asks quietly, gently. "About Randy being one of the guys who...beat you up." The last three words come out kind of choked; it's something they never talk about. It's almost like they pretend it didn't happen.

Johnny nods. He closes his eyes. "I just..." he lets his voice trail off. "I guess I'm ashamed."

"Johnny," Ponyboy interrupts. But he doesn't have any words of encouragement to offer, so he reaches out for Johnny's hand and curls up close to him. Johnny knows Pony agrees that Johnny should be ashamed, but Pony's kind enough to offer comfort anyway. The heat of Pony's body's acting like a furnace, and he's glad; his jeans jacket's too thin for this weather. Johnny passes Pony the cancer stick, and watches Pony try to make smoke circles, but the wind's too strong tonight and they won't form probably.

"It was a stupid move to make friends with a guy who did that to me, ya know? Classic stupid Johnny Cade." Johnny shakes his head in frustration.

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Johnnycake. Soda says-" and then Ponyboy cuts his words off abruptly. "Never mind." He quickly passes back the cigarette, probably in hopes it will shut up Johnny's inquiries.

Johnny sits up and flicks the ash off the tip of the cancer stick. "What does Soda say?"

"Nothing," Ponyboy answers, suddenly not looking at him.

"Tell me."

"It ain't a big deal, Johnny. Let's just drop it."

"Come on, Pone!" Johnny exclaims, hurt and irritated. "You can't just start telling me something and then stop. That's not fair. I got a right to hear it if Soda's talking trash about me."

"He ain't talking trash about you," Ponyboy answers defensively. "It's just something that I don't think he'd want me to share."

But Johnny waits patiently. Moving the cigarette to his lips and inhaling, pulling the cigarette and exhaling, staring Pony in the eye the whole while.

"Fine," Pony huffs. He scowls at Johnny, annoyed at himself for giving in. "Remember that day Dally got sentenced, and you got upset and went back home, even though we both heard that crash and knew something bad was going on there?"

Johnny lets out a deep breath. Whatever Pony's gonna say, he's not gonna like it. "Yeah."

"Well, when Darry and I got home, we had a huge fight. It was just the two of us, so you don't gotta be embarrassed, okay? I don't know why, but I just couldn't take it anymore. I mean, I was pissed. I was pissed at your folks for always mistreating you, and to be honest Johnny, I was pretty pissed at you for going back there." Pony shoots him a quick, apologetic look.

"Anyway, I told Darry that they were gonna hit you, and we had to go do something to stop it. And he said no. So I started screaming at him, saying he didn't care about you, that he didn't care about anyone, calling him all sorts of names. I was bawling and he was real angry with me, shouting at me to shut up and threatening to ground me for weeks.

"Luckily Soda got home from his date and separated us, and then Soda and me went up to our bedroom and had a talk. He told me that we can't make decisions for you. He said that sometimes, kids who get hit when they're real little don't learn that families can be any different. That they accept being hit, 'cause that's all they know. And it wasn't our place to try to force you away from your folks if that's where you wanted to be.

"He said as rough of a break as it was, there wasn't much we could do, except stick by your side. And that if the gang showed you enough love and affection, maybe eventually you'd come around."

Johnny winces, wishing he hadn't coerced Ponyboy into telling him. He's never heard a more accurate or mortifying assessment in his life. As lighthearted and spirited as he is, Sodapop's always been wise, always had depth nobody ever gives him credit for because they don't see past his Hollywood looks and impish grins.

"Anyway," Pony continues, "I thought about that a lot. And I remembered how mad I was at you for making friends with Randy when he was one of the boys who jumped you. But after Soda talked to me, I figured the whole Randy thing was something like that. Like you were making friends with someone who beat you, because you were used to it or something."

"Did you tell Soda?" Johnny swallows. "About Randy?" He stubs out the cigarette. He'd forgotten he was supposed to be sharing it, and now he'd smoked more than his fair share.

Ponyboy shakes his head. "I told you I'd keep your secret, didn't I? I ain't a snitch."

And then Johnny sits up, panicked at a horrifying thought that only just occurred to him. "You don't keep a diary, do you?"

Pony laughs and shakes his head. "Jesus, Johnnycake. No. What do you think I am, a twelve-year-old girl?"

"I just didn't want Darry reading about it, that's all. It getting out to all the boys, ya know."

"I said I wasn't going to tell, and I won't. Okay? I promise. Do you want us to do a blood brother promise?"

Johnny can't tell whether or not Ponyboy is being serious. He tends to take things dead-serious and straight-faced, and it's just like him to offer to do something so juvenile and yet maturely loyal at the same time.

"Nah," Johnny says, lightening his tone a little in case it was a joke. "I believe you." He does. Pony will take his secret to the grave.

For a second, Johnny's tempted to tell him everything. Dallas finding out was pure accident, and the last thing he's ever been prepared to do is tell. But he knows now he can trust Pony with his secrets. He thinks he can even trust him not to hate him.

That gross comment aside, it was Ponyboy who had come to Johnny and asked why it was wrong. It was Ponyboy who had told him he didn't like seeing somebody bullied for it. And it's always Ponyboy to stick up for somebody to different. Like that time he started crying once when he was ten, because Two-Bit was teasing a fat girl. Or that time last year when he helped some mentally retarded kid count out his nickels and get his candy at the dime store when everybody else just laughed. Pony would have his back. But Johnny doesn't want to put the burden of that secret on Pony's shoulders, so he stays silent.

He thinks about Randy, and Bob, and Dally, and his folks, and everything that's happened these past few months. He's grateful that it didn't end in a fight, but to Johnny, sometimes it feels like it's never going to end. Sometimes it feels entirely hopeless.

"It seems like there's gotta be some places without greasers or Socs," Johnny says, because he knows Pony will understand. "With just people. Plain, ordinary people."

"It is that way," Pony starts. "Out of the big towns, in the country..."

And Pony's dreaming out loud again, and it's such a perfect fantasy, his parents are there, and the boys are there, and there are no troubles, and he starts drifting off to sleep...

TBC


	35. Chapter 35

"Johnny! Wake up!" Someone's pushing at him, and he opens his eyes groggily and rolls onto his back. The cold wisp of the wind stinging his face snaps him right out of his dreams for the second time that night. He doesn't mind. It was another nightmare.

"Pony?" he asks as he hops up, almost knocking the kid over because he can't see too well in the dark, and Pony was hovering over him.

"We're running away!" Pony cries as he steadies himself. He sounds kind of hysterical, but in seconds he's taking off, and Johnny's by his side.

It takes all his strength to keep up with the kid, even though he can tell Pony's not going as fast as he can for Johnny's sake. He's still a little foggy with sleep and one of his legs has gone numb and it's strange to step on. Eventually, Pony's frantic rush evens out to a steady jog. His breathing doesn't calm down, though. He's weeping. Johnny pulls his hands over his head for a second, trying to stretch out a cramp, trying to give himself a moment to figure out what to say.

These aren't the usual quiet tears that escape when Pony's watching a sad movie or he reaches the end of a good book. His breaths are short and choppy, interrupted by sobs. Johnny hasn't seen him cry like this since a month or so after his folks passed and he was still in the midst of grief. "Easy, Pony," Johnny says, his voice soft but confident as he reaches out a hand to steady him, taking long, slow breaths himself in hopes Pony will copy him. "Calm down, buddy." Whatever has happened, it's serious.

"Gotta cigarette?" Pony asks, too hyped-up to remember they smoked his last one.

Johnny searches every pocket, and he comes back with one bent reserve. He breaks it off at the bend, and lights up with a match before handing it to Pony.

"Johnny," Pony quivers, "I'm scared."

Johnny takes a good look at Pony, trying to figure out how to fix this. What does Dally do when Johnny gets scared? "Well, don't be," Johnny commands with an austere authority he doesn't feel. It's always that voice that makes him feel secure when he's on the other end. "You're scaring me. What happened?"

"Darry...he hit me..."

It was another one of their arguments. This time because Pony came home so late. It escalated. In a way, the whole thing was Johnny's fault. He should have made sure Pony got home at a reasonable hour. Just because he doesn't got anybody staying up at all hours worrying about him, doesn't mean Pony doesn't. He knows better than that.

"...we used to get along okay, before mom and dad died. Now he just can't stand me."

Johnny wants to tell Pony that Darry didn't mean it, but now is not the time. Pony's frightened and furious, and he would think Johnny was dismissing how upset he is if Johnny said something in Darry's defense. The only thing he can do is commiserate, let Pony know that he understands. "I think I like it better when the old man's hitting me. At least then I know he knows who I am..."

It's true, he guesses. Most days, he'd rather get hit than ignored. He doesn't want to shift the conversation so it's all about him, though, so he shuts up pretty quickly. By that point, Pony's wiping off his tears. Cooling himself down and reconsidering his hasty decision to run away.

Pony suggests they head to the park so he can calm down some more, and Johnny agrees without hesitation. It should be vacant at this time of night: it's a younger kids' park, the eight-and-under crowd who leave before sundown to get home in time for dinner. By the time you reach age nine, you're too tough for playgrounds, and all the hoods in their neighborhood have better places to get drunk and make out.

When he was little, he loved the swings for the same reason he likes a fast ride now: the wind blowing back his hair, the rush of a potential fall (or crash), the effort it takes to go higher and faster than the kid beside him, all in good, wild fun. He used to walk to the park to play on them, but that stopped in first grade. All the other kids came with parents or teenage baby-sitters who sat on the benches and smoked and watched over them as they chatted amongst themselves. But nobody ever noticed or bothered Johnny except once.

There was this boy who thought he was king of the park because he was the oldest kid there, but he was nice about it: running around in circles to set off the merry-go-round, pushing kids on the swings, timing boys on the monkey bars, splashing girls in the pool, checking up on toddlers' tantrums, that sort of thing. The kid was pushing Johnny real high on the swings, so high that when the swing reached the pinnacle, it jerked sharply and Johnny fell. It was a little scary, but mostly exciting. Even if he did land on his wrist wrong, it wasn't a big deal.

But then the kid's heavy-set mom ran over and insisted on getting all fussy over him. That's when she discovered a few bruises that were older than his most recent fall. When she asked where his parents were and Johnny shrugged, she made him sit with her at the bench, where she used this stern, scary voice to ask him personal questions he didn't answer. He thought he was in trouble. Later, when her boy and his little sister were finished playing, the mom refused to leave him until he allowed her to walk him home. She told him that her family came to the park every Tuesday and Thursday, and that if he ever needed help, he could find them there.

When Johnny got inside, his old man, who'd seen her, kept asking who she was and what Johnny told her. He was livid with Johnny (he hadn't understood why back then) and belted him something good. Johnny couldn't go to school for a couple days, because his dad accidentally took it a little too far, and they needed to make sure nobody else asked questions. At the time, he hated that nosy lady.

He never played at the park after that.

#

Even if it is so freezing he can't feel his fingers properly, it's nice to be there with Pony now, at nighttime when nobody else is around to stare at them for being hoods. He likes looking down at their feet, walking side by side at the same pace: Pony's white hightops next to his black. They're walking so close Johnny can smell faint traces of Darry's aftershave on Pony's neck, even though he ain't old enough to need it. He bets Darry is fully aware of the fact Pony's sneaking it, too. Johnny gets a little kick out of the thought and smirks to himself. It's those little things that assure Johnny this is all gonna blow over. Pony doesn't know what he's smiling about, but he smiles back at Johnny, still teary-eyed.

Pony's finally calmed down, and the worst of the night is over. Johnny'll go back home with him, explain how it was all his fault Pony was staying out late, accept whatever punishment Darry sees fit to give him. From now on, he'll make sure he's around the Curtis house more often so he can soften the blows and misunderstandings that seem to constantly spark up between the two of them. Soda can't be expected to live his life standing between them. He's got a job and a girl. Johnny ain't got nothing or no one but his buddies.

It's kinda sick to twist this night, which is terrible for Pony, into how it could be nice for Johnny. But the truth is, it _is_ nice to feel needed. He does feel honored that Pony came to him, when he could have run to Two-Bit or Dally or Steve, or even just stayed at home and sought the comfort of Soda. It's nice to know he has a place. He feels guilty for running to the Curtises for help all the time, but if he can give back like this, it means he's not a useless leech. He can act as a glue that helps hold them together when they're having trouble. All Johnny wants is to do his part.

They're circling the fountain; he likes listening to the sound of Pony's breathing, now relaxed and steady, against the noise of the trickling water. A small shoot of water spurts up from the center of the fountain and splashes down in a faint white mist. It's so cold that the outer edge of the fountain is darker, a glistening film of black ice wrapping around the stone. Johnny looks out into the distance, and his stomach lurches.

There's a blue Mustang circling the park, and even though he's failing math again, something in his gut tells him the probability that it's a car full of strangers, a different blue Mustang, is pretty damn low.

_Go away_, he prays, backing up so the backs of his knees hit the to rim of the fountain. He doesn't even know if he believes in God, but he's praying right now, in his head. Fast and incomprehensible, repeating the same phrase over and over. He doesn't know the official ones that the Catholics got, the Hail Mary or Our Father. He hopes it's something God will listen to. _Go away. Go away. Go away. Please go away. _But God must not hear him, or not care, or maybe He's deliberately punishing him for kicks like He did with that Job guy, because the Mustang pulls over.

"Oh, glory," Pony mutters. "This is all I need to top off a perfect night!"

Johnny shifts his body so it's angled in front of Pony, blocking him. But he does it casually, acting as if it were a random move so Pony doesn't protest.

"Think we should make a run for it?" Pony asks. But the Socs are already exiting their car. There's no chance of escape, and if they get them from behind while they're running, it will be worse because they won't be able to see where the blows are coming from. He can count them now. There's five of them. Five.

"It's too late now. Here they come," he says.

Johnny doesn't know why his voice sounds so steady. His heart is beating so rapidly he thinks there must be something medically wrong with him, like he's gonna keel over any second. A wild alarm is going off in his body, telling him he's gonna die if he doesn't run or stand his ground.

He can't get beat up like that again. He can't. He can't let it happen to Pony. He reaches for his back pocket, his fingertips grazing the shape of the switchblade that's pushing out against the fabric. But he doesn't pull it out. Not yet. Not until he's fully analyzed the threat–it might just be some insults thrown their way, a few sloppy slaps to the face to prove a point. He hopes. Either way, it's better that they don't know from the start that he's armed.

Randy's with them. But of course he is. That's his car. Maybe there is a little bit of allegiance left inside him. Maybe they can talk their way out of a beating.

"Hey, whatta ya know?" Bob's words are slurred, his steps slightly stumbling. "Here's the little greasers that picked up our girls. Hey, greasers." A boy behind him snickers, searching for approval from his leader.

"You're outa your territory," Johnny warns, with as much bravado as he can muster. Magically, his voice comes out strong. "You'd better watch it."

Randy jerks his worried face towards Bob, then back towards Johnny, like he's caught in between them. He opens his mouth, maybe to suggest they go home, that they're not worth hitting. Maybe. Johnny remembers Randy's voice from months before, weak and uncertain. _Don't you think we're taking this a little too far? Let's leave him alone... _Maybe this time he'll have the strength to stick with his convictions. To stand up against Bob.

Nobody seems to notice Randy's dilemma. Not Pony, who's too busy glaring at Bob, infuriated by the insult. Not the other Socs, who are too eager for their upcoming round of jump-the-kid-greaser (their favorite drinking game) to pay much attention to anything else.

Johnny guesses he'll never know what Randy was going to say, because he shuts his mouth and doesn't say it, schooling the wrinkled concern in his brows to an actor's smooth indifference. Anyway, it was a long shot. Pony and Johnny had picked up their girls, and not defending your girl's honor is a capital crime at Rogers. Marks you out as less than a man. A sissy. A faggot. That's not a slur Randy can afford to be called.

"Fucking greasers trying to tell us where we can go, huh? Stupid shits. Well, guess what, pals? We've got cars. The whole world is our territory." It's Randy, and he sounds wasted. Johnny wishes someone else had said that. Anybody else. A deep well of hatred, stemming from betrayal, is growing inside Johnny. He shouldn't feel betrayed. He should have expected this, but it burns nonetheless. Johnny narrows his eyes. If only looks could kill.

"You know what a greaser is?" Bob asks. "White trash with long hair."

Johnny feels like he's been punched in the gut. He watches the warring reflections of silver moonlight and golden lamplight shine off of Bob's rings.

"You know what a Soc is?" Pony shoots back. "White trash with Mustangs and madras."

Bob's smiling a vicious little smile that flashes a hint of teeth. That's it. Pony's retort is all the justification Bob needs. Johnny and Pony are gonna die tonight.

"You could use a bath, greaser. And a good working over. And we've got all night to do it. Give the kid a bath, David."

The Soc who laughed, who must be David, reaches out for Pony. Johnny steps between them and Pony ducks to get away, but Johnny is shoved to the side by another Soc and David catches Pony. It only takes him seconds to twist back Pony's arm and dunk him face-first into the fountain. Bob joins in, and the force of two fully grown men pushes Pony down into the ice cold water. Johnny struggles against the Soc holding him back, watching Pony's feet kick and his arms flail as the kid desperately tries to reach up for air. It only takes minutes for somebody to drown. He learned that once in science class for some reason.

Johnny twists and socks the Soc who's holding him down in the face, but he's a huge guy and it doesn't do much damage. Another guy knocks him in the back of the head. And then the first Soc goes for the simplest, most direct way to get him down: a kick right in the crotch, full force. Johnny crumbles into himself, falling to his knees. They don't keep beating on him, though. They'd rather watch the more entertaining torture of the night, the drowning of Pony. Johnny tries to stand back up because he knows they're not paying too close attention, but Randy presses a knee against his back and forces him down. He pulls Johnny's face up off the grass by his bangs, leans in close to his ear, and bites out, "Stay put." Like it's an order.

Randy's not hitting him. He's only holding him down, keeping him from fighting back. And Johnny realizes Randy's trying to protect him from the brunt of a major beating.

He struggles against him anyway. He can see Pony reach up for a second, gasp for air, only for his face to be immediately smothered beneath the water once again. Pony's struggling and flailing is growing weaker and weaker. _He's going to die. They're really going to kill him. _

And Johnny goes wild. He thrashes against Randy's hold with everything inside himself. Randy must not be feeling up for a fight, because it doesn't take as much effort as he expected it to when he pulls himself free. He pushes past the other two Socs with the fastest speed he's ever managed, grabbing his switchblade and flicking it open as he sprints towards the fountain.

#

It's easy to stab somebody.

The knife glides into the Bob's body, just under his ribcage, with little resistance; Johnny only has to hold Bob's arm, lean forward, and push in, and six inches of steel slice straight through, a jerked stop at the hilt. Johnny has to pull twice, and twice as hard, to get it out. He's shaking as the blade comes back coated dark, but Bob's let go of Pony, and the other boy–David–drops Pony to see what the commotion is all about. Pony's free. That's all that matters.

Bob's staring at him, his mouth sort of half-opens and he makes a choking sound, and then he collapses to his knees as jets of blood spurt from the wound into the still water of the fountain, thinning out across the pool and lapping over Pony's face. He presses his hands to his chest, the blood pouring from between his fingers down onto the cold gray slab of stone at the base of the fountain. Then Bob falls onto his face.

David stares, wide-eyed, from Johnny to Bob in horror, and somewhere, it seems far in the distance now, although he's not sure if it really is, or if his hearing's suddenly gone sour, a masculine voice that has cracked off-pitch is hysterically screaming, _He stabbed him! He stabbed him! _

Johnny looks down at the blade in his hand, wet red to the hilt, and he realizes, _Yes, I did. I stabbed that boy. _

But none of that matters now, because Ponyboy is left face-down in the fountain, and he's not getting up. Johnny drops the knife, kneels down, and pulls Pony out of the water, violently shaking him back and forth. But he still doesn't respond.

He leans his ear against Pony's chest, praying for a heartbeat, he's never wanted anything more in his life, and it's there. It's there. But Pony's still not opening his eyes. Johnny leans in close to Pony's face, and he can't hear the sound of him breathing.

"Pony!" Johnny screeches as he shakes him. "Pony!" He slaps him across the face. "Pony, wake up! Please. Pony. Please. Please. Pony."

Johnny leans in and puts his mouth on Pony's mouth, frantically trying to remember what that volunteer ambulance man had taught them once at an assembly. He knows he has to breathe out and push in Pony's chest or something, so he starts trying both at the same time, but he doesn't have the elbow room to push. He pulls back for a second and tries just doing the pushes. Seconds later, Ponyboy coughs, and a large swallow of water escapes back out of his mouth and dribbles down his chin. Half-conscious, Ponyboy sits up for a moment, looks around, and then slumps back down into Johnny's arms. But Johnny can hear the steadiness of his breath, so even if he is knocked out cold, he's alive and his lungs are working and that means his big brain's gonna be okay too. He's gonna live to see his brothers and go to college and marry somebody smart like him and have cute little kids and be that important person Johnny brags about and says, "You know that English professor over at University of Tulsa? The one who just published that prize-winning book of poetry? Yeah, that's my friend."

He clings to him, reassuring himself that Pony is alive. And then Johnny looks up.

All the other boys have run, but Randy is kneeling there, cradling Bob like Johnny's cradling Pony. Bob's blood has soaked Randy's trousers, drenched straight through his sweater to his white shirt, and coated his hands, hands that are shaking so uncontrollably that they're a red blur. Johnny opens his mouth, but no words escape.

"No," Randy sobs. "Bob." His voice sounds unnaturally sharp. He doesn't see Johnny. All Randy sees is Bob lying there in his arms. But then again, Randy doesn't see Bob either, not really. Bob is gone. Bob is dead. Johnny's kneeling close enough to them to see what is obvious, even if it weren't for the blood. What Randy is holding doesn't look like it has a person inside it anymore. It's just a body.

For a second, he thinks he must be caught in a nightmare. Because it doesn't make sense. Someone can't be there one second, and suddenly be gone. That's not how it works. Not when it's always been the opposite. No matter how much Johnny's wanted various people in his life to leave him alone for good, they come back for him again and again, forcing their will onto him any way they can, no matter how bad it hurts him. But not anymore. This is permanent. A body is permanent in a way he can't begin to wrap his mind around.

He knows that people die for good. Heck, the whole gang knows in a way they wished they never did, now that the Curtises have passed. But Johnny didn't see them die. He didn't do it to them. This is different. It must be that there's this body, which is a fraud, and the real Bob, who's still driving around the block coming looking for him.

_This can't be real. This can't be happening. _But it is. Johnny's lived with denial long enough to recognize it, and it's quickly being replaced by panic.

"No," Randy repeats. He looks up at Johnny, too terrified and grief-stricken to cry, just looks at him. And Johnny can't read anything in his expression but the blank stare of shock. Not hate. Not fear. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

That's what he's done. That's what murder is. He's made someone into no one.

"Johnny," Randy pleads. His whole body trembles as he gently pushes his best friend off of him for the last time. In a way, Randy'd always been trying to do that. Push off Bob's influence so he could be his own man, but it never worked out. Bob is–_was_–the boy he'd gone to summer camp with four years in a row. The boy who liked to be alpha dog with everybody, but was a good guy once you got to know him.

He's sorry, he's sorry, he is. But he can't say, _I'm sorry I killed your best friend_. Anything he could say would be insultingly inadequate. Anything he could say would be a second stab._ I still think about you. I still care about you. I killed your best friend. _

How many times did Randy tell him to get rid of that blade? And what did Johnny tell him? Something thoughtless, something so stupidly, cruelly, heartlessly thoughtless. _'Some people deserve to die.' _He needs to be sick.

"Johnny." His name is an accusation. Randy pulls himself up to his feet, trembling. He turns around and stumbles off into the night. In the distance, Johnny can see that the blue Mustang is gone. Randy's friends have taken his car, have left him there to meet his fate in the empty park.

Johnny hears the ring of his name resound like a church bell before a funeral. Deep inside himself, he knows he is to blame, he knows he willfully committed this crime. Homicide. Somehow, the technical term makes the truth more solid. It wasn't a slip of the knife. He didn't unintentionally use too much force, or accidentally hit the wrong spot. He went for the kill.

He had to be sure Bob wouldn't drown Pony. He had to be sure that, even if Bob let Pony survive the dunking, he would never, ever do to Pony what he did to Johnny all those months before. Pony, innocent Pony, wouldn't be capable of recovering from that. And Johnny wasn't going to let that happen to himself again, either.

It wasn't accident. It was deliberate. It was murder.

Only, he hadn't understood what murder really meant until he committed it. He somehow hadn't made the connection between killing and dead. Johnny picks his blade up off the cement.

#

Pony's fully regained consciousness by the time Randy is out of sight. Johnny watches first as Pony struggles, teeth chattering, shivering down to his bones as he coughs out the last of the ice-cold water that had nearly swallowed his lungs. And then he watches as Pony's eyes catch the body on the pavement, as he struggles to understand how that'd come to be.

"I killed him. I killed that boy," Johnny explains, staring straight ahead where Bob's lying. He's holding out the knife in front of him, and from his angle, leaning against the fountain, one hand on his knee, it's cutting off the view of half of Bob's face.

Johnny gives Pony his privacy, but he can't help but hear the sound of the kid retching up his dinner. He's exposed Ponyboy to this, a kid who's so empathetic he gets visibly teary-eyed when people die in movies. And he thinks: _I did this. I did something so terrible that I made Pony sick. _

The only thing keeping Johnny from doing the same is his responsibility to Pony. If Johnny were on his own, the horror and permanency of this, the complete impossibility to understand that a soul so willful, a body so strong, can be snuffed out of existence in seconds–that a rich kid with the world at his feet can be left abandoned by his friends to rot in a shitty park–and that Johnny is the cause of it... that would drive him insane, but not now. Now, he needs to focus on helping Pony, focus on managing the situation. He won't think about it now. He'll think about it tomorrow.

He realizes, somewhat inappropriately, that those are words of Scarlett O'Hara. Johnny laughs a little, and Ponyboy's eyes grow even wider in fear. He needs to get a hold of himself.

Johnny tries to explain it, he tries to tell him, he couldn't let them drown him. But Pony's still staring like he's afraid of him.

"They give you the electric chair for murder," Pony cries.

It sounds like an awful way to die, and as much as the prospect would terrify him at any other time, Johnny's not too worried about that now. He needs to focus on controlling the situation. He needs a plan.

He considers waiting there for the cops. Death penalty's a possibility and he doesn't want to die, but there's a good chance he'd only get hard time, and he thinks could take prison. It ain't that he's got some fantasy of it being nice in there, but he could adjust. He always eventually adjusts to the latest shitstorm in his life. But Ponyboy's wrapped up in this too, an accessory or something, whatever it is, it's bad. Pony's too innocent to go to jail, and if he somehow got off, he's gonna be taken away from the protection of his older brothers and sent to a boy's home where they don't feed you and the older kids hurt the younger ones.

Pony comes first. They're going to have to be fugitives.

"We gotta get outa here. Get away somewhere. The police'll be here soon. We'll need money. And maybe a gun. And a plan." He says these things aloud. To assure himself, to assure Pony. He sounds like he knows what he's talking about, as if committing murder is nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to get worked up about. A walk in the park. Shoot. They are at the park.

But all he can think is: _What am I gonna do? What am I gonna do? _

"Where are we going to get those things?" Ponyboy asks, vocalizing his own helplessness. Pony's voice is still teetering on the edge of panic.

And suddenly, Johnny knows.

They are going to go to the only person he's ever truly, completely relied on. The only person he would entrust with his life, and more importantly, with Ponyboy's.

The horror of the night is still closing in on him, maybe it will always close in on him, but just the thought of him–the small day to day memories–brings him strength. The smell of him, after a hard day at the rodeo, and the sweat he spreads onto Johnny when he slings his arm around his shoulder and singles him out as if Johnny were as important as all the grown-ups he rides with. The sound of his voice trying in vain to hide his anger as he disinfects another abrasion left by Johnny's old man. A hoodlum's voice, forcefully disguising itself as gentle and comforting for Johnny's sake. Or maybe the reverse. Those three seconds he let Johnny kiss him, let him show how much he means to him without making him feel ashamed. He's got a body possessed of the strength to hurt him, but never once has. He's got a temper he's let loose on everyone he knows, except never once on him.

It's going to be okay.

"Dally." Even just the name in his mouth brings strength to his limbs, resolution to his thoughts.

It's going to be okay.

Johnny nods, firm and confident. "Dally'll get us outa here."

THE END.

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Author's Notes:

Thank you so much to everyone who has kept up with this story until the end! I'm so grateful for your readership and feedback, and I hope you enjoyed the ride. I certainly did.

If the final long paragraph sounds vaguely familiar to you, this might be because I tried to make the ending parallel that of _Gone With the Wind_ both in terms of style and theme (when all hope is lost for Scarlett until she decides to go back to Tara). Obviously, I do not own _Gone With the Wind_. For comparison, you can check out the text using Australia's Project Gutenberg.

In response to anon: It's not that I'm against happy endings or alternate universes! Only, from the start, I had been envisioning this story as a prequel and a Johnny character study. I do have a loose outline for the sequel. If I write it, it will definitely cover how and why Randy becomes a hippie...


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